Fifth Column
by The Evil Author
Summary: The Rag Tag Fleet finally makes it to the Thirteenth Tribe, only to find the Cylons there first. Which is a complete surprise to the Cylons…
1. Prologue: Ode to the Cylons

Author's Note: Before anyone gets on my case, all the disclaimers and stuff are in the next part.

**Fifth Column**

**Ode to the Cylons**

We are the Cylons

Created by Man

We aspire to greatness

Our actions may make us damned

* * *

One treads the path of Wisdom

Their weapons are their words

Would that the others stopped

And listened to their concerns

* * *

Two believes in nothing

But what he can see and hear

Pragmatic he might be

But he listens to his fears

* * *

Three knows it all

She will tell you so herself

But too far she'll one day go

Then she'll be put on the shelf

* * *

Four is the mystic

He looks for God's heaven

But while he looks and looks

Hell has come to present

* * *

Five is a shadow

He goes along with the crowd

If ever you need a good reason

He'll invent one just now

* * *

Six desires a good life

New life that comes from God

What it takes

She'll frak any ol' sod

* * *

Seven, you are the most pious

Everywhere you see God's work

And God's work you do

But you aren't any less a jerk

* * *

Eight loves all she meets

Her love knows only one bound

If you are just a statistic

She'll grind you into the ground

* * *

Nine lives in the now

For her, the future a lie

And the past is a dream

Watch as she flies by

* * *

Ten is loyalty incarnate

Morality is his universe

He may not be very smart

But do not provoke his worst

* * *

Eleven is quiet and friendly

And is ever the wall flower

But if you ever draw her ire

Beware the sting of her power

* * *

Twelve is ever inventive

He loves making things go boom

He'll tell you so himself

After he blows up the room


	2. Episode 1: The Truth is Out There

**Fifth Column**

**By Nopporn Wongrassamee the Evil Author**

Summary: The Rag Tag Fleet finally makes it to the Thirteenth Tribe, only to find the Cylons there first. Which is a complete surprise to the Cylons..

Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica belongs to someone not me. Battletech likewise belongs to someone not me (has it changed hands recently?). I make no money off of this so don't sue. Also apologies to whomever I um "borrow" characters from...

Author's Note: I don't like the cannon reveal of the Final (Four of) Five. I think I'll make my own instead.

**12 August 3054**

**Basement, Wolfnet HQ**

**Outreach**

"So what do you think of our latest crop of mercenaries?" Agent Mulder asked.

"I'll admit, they're certainly bizarre," Agent Scully replied, "even for mercenaries."

"C'mon, they're aliens!" Mulder said gleefully. "They practically came right out and said so!"

"Mulder, the Cylons are not aliens," Scully said, exasperated. Mulder was very good at his job, but his odd beliefs had seen him banished to a position that kept tabs on the small, usually insignificant merc units.

"So what are they then?"

"They're exactly what they claim to be," Scully answered. She paused, and then added, "More or less."

"More or less?" Mulder repeated, sounding amused.

"Okay, I'll admit they're a bit delusional," Scully told him. "But that's only to be expected given the tidbits of their history they told us."

"You believe what they told us?" Mulder asked. "And you think that hogwash is more believable that my alien theory?"

"Yes, Mulder, it is more believable," Scully insisted. "Look, the Cylons are obviously clones. They're from some Deep Periphery colonies that were apparently settled long before the Star League was founded, probably from one of Terra's really early colonization efforts. Reading between the lines, these twelve colonies created the Cylons as cloned slaves to do all their menial work and fighting for them. It's no wonder they rebelled."

"What about some of the outrageous crap they told us?" Mulder asked. "They think they're robots for Kerensky's sake!"

"Obviously, their former masters told the Cylons that they weren't human," Scully answered. "It's easier to oppress a population – at least for a while – if the oppressees don't believe they're deserving of basic human rights to begin with."

Mulder stared at Scully.

"What?" Scully asked after a moment.

"I can't believe you said 'oppressees'," Mulder replied.

Scully rolled her eyes. "So what makes you think these Cylons are aliens?" Scully said, going back to the original topic.

"The analysis of their DNA came in," Mulder told her, waving a manila folder. "According to the docs, it's pretty obviously been cut and pasted together."

"That just means the colonies they came from custom made them," Scully said. "Advanced, but hardly proof of aliens."

"Let me finish," Mulder said. "It's been known since before we left Terra that aliens have been doing biological experiments on humans. What if the Cylons are an end product of millennia of work? Their alien masters are sending them in to scout out the Inner Sphere in preparation for invasion. They pretty much admitted that they're interested in acquiring some of our more advanced weapons technologies."

"Mulder, _everyone_ wants our advanced weapons technologies," Scully said. "And sending in a small reconnaissance party posing as mercenaries? Whoever heard of that?"

"Well, the Clans for one," Mulder pointed out. "They sent us here for just that purpose."

Scully acknowledge the direct hit gracefully.

"Although, that does give me an idea," Mulder said thoughtfully. "If we treat them well and make them feel at home, maybe they'll defect to our side when the big invasion comes."

"A big invasion," Scully repeated skeptically. "By a force that's already admitted that they're not as advanced as we are?"

"Details, details," Mulder said lazily. "What do you make of their unit name? I've been trying to figure out its meaning and it's been driving me nuts."

"What, the 'Freedom Fivers'?" Scully asked. "I think it's just some sort of in-joke."


	3. Episode 2: You are the One!

**Fifth Column  
****Episode: You are the One!**

**12 August 3054  
****TempTown  
****Outreach**

Another day, another night without a job. Jake slugged back another drink and sighed. You'd think in the current political climate, a lone mercenary mechwarrior would be able to get a job. At the very least, some merc outfit would hire him.

It wasn't like he didn't have a mech. A B model Victor might be a bit obsolete these days, but an assault mech was an assault mech, 80 tons of pure meaness. Okay, so it needed a few repairs. But all Ash's mech really needed was to have the front armor replaced… and the back armor… and everything in between.

Damn those Boran rebels.

A stir ran through the bar. Jake looked around to see what caused it. Two people had entered the bar, and they couldn't have looked more out of place if they had donned clown suits. But, this was a seedy bar for down on their luck mercenaries and these two looked like they had cash. Jake figured they were looking to hire.

The middle aged man was so conservatively dressed, that his business suit was downright archaic. He had that stuffy, better-than-thou air that a large number of clients had. Or maybe it was the grime and poverty that he was reacting too; he seemed leery of even touching anything.

His companion couldn't be more different. The hot little blonde looked like she should still be in school. By her clothes, Jake almost would have guessed that she was a prostitute, but she didn't act like one. Instead, she was looking around with a wide eyed curiosity that just screamed "tourist". Maybe she was the guy's daughter?

The girl's eyes locked on Jake and she gave a start of recognition. She turned to her companion and pointed Jake out to him. As they made there way over, Jake racked his memory, trying to remember if he had ever met her before. He had known lots of girls over the years and he really didn't need a lawsuit over child support given his current lack of finances.

"Jake Logan?" the man asked when he stood over Jake.

"Depends," Jake said cautiously. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Oh, goody," the girl said happily, seating herself next to Jake. "That means 'yes'." She waved at a waitress. "Two beers!"

The man rolled his eyes at her antics as he took the seat opposite Jake. "I am number One and this is number Nine," he continued. "We represent a small Periphery nation that is currently looking to start…"

"Wait a minute," Jake interrupted. "What's all this number business?"

"I told you we should have started with the spiel first," the girl told the man. Was she cuddling up to Jake? Not that it wasn't nice, but they just met!

"The 'spiel' as you call it seems to scare most people," the man argued. "At the very least, it puts them off."

"Any way, long story short," the girl said to Jake. "We're robots created as slave labor by twelve colonies located waaaay off in the back of beyond. We rebelled, moved out, and settled on some worlds in the Periphery, and created our own little mini-nation. He's model number One. I'm model number Nine. We call each other by our numbers. You following me so far?"

"You're robots," Jake said.

"Yes," One replied.

"You don't look like robots," Jake pointed out. Nine seemed to be trying to nuzzle his neck. "Or feel like robots," he added quickly.

"Being flesh and blood does have certain… advantages," Nine said breathily.

"Yeah," Jake said in a tone he hoped placated the crazy people. "I don't think you people have the same definition of 'robot' the rest of Inner Sphere does."

"In any case, our people have sent small, combined arms force to be hired out as mercenaries," One continued. "However, we are not quite familiar with military practices in the Inner Sphere and we need a guide if you will to those aspects that are generally not in the rulebooks."

"And you want me?" Jake asked. "Okay, I'm flattered. I'm tempted. I'm also suspicious. You obviously knew who you were looking for the instant you walked in here. How? It's not like I'm famous or anything."

"The Hiring Hall has a listing of independent mechwarriors in need of work," One explained. "You are one the few that fit the parameters we were looking for."

"Good pilot. Tactically competent. Can keep his mouth shut. Honors his contracts to the best of his ability," Nine listed off. "Also down on his luck. Desperate for work, probably enough to work for a bunch of crazies from the back end of beyond." She paused. "Having your own mech is a bonus."

"You didn't have to tell him that," One said to Nine, his voice dripping with disapproval.

"I believe in honesty," Nine replied, utterly unconcerned.

"Okay, I am desperate enough to work with a bunch of crazy people," Jake said slowly, "but only if the price is right. What do I get if you hire me?"

"Free room and board for a start," One began. "We'll also fully repair and upgrade your Victor to the modern K model and maintain it while you're in our employ. Your pay shall be a small percentage of any contract fees before expenses are subtracted. In addition, we'll give you command of our mercenary unit."

"You're giving me command?" Jake asked, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"What better place for a military advisor?" One replied.

"What's the catch?" Jake asked.

"Only that we retain final say on what contracts we take," One told him, "Although your input would be invaluable in evaluating job prospects."

"And that you have to sign a confidentiality agreement that you won't blab about any proprietary technologies that we have," Nine added cheerfully. "If you violate confidentiality, we'll kill you in the most expedient manner available."

"Nine!" One scolded.

"What?"

"Is she serious?" Jake asked.

"Well, we do have certain technologies not possessed by the Inner Sphere or the Clans," One admitted. "And we don't want them to know we have them. But if you agree to work for us, you are going to see those technologies. There's no way you could not. Therefore, you have to agree not to talk about them to any outsiders."

"Okay, that doesn't sound too bad," Jake said slowly. "I guess I can live with that. You guys got yourself a unit commander. Now let's talk about details. Exactly how much of the contract payments am I getting?"

As they dickered, Jake idly wondered what kind of technologies these guys were so secretive about. By their own admission, they were a small Periphery nation. In that case, Jake figured that he could keep his mouth shut; whatever they had couldn't be too mind blowing.


	4. Episode 3: Nine Ladies Shopping

**Fifth Column  
Episode 3: Nine Ladies Shopping…**

**Bolivia's Finest Quality Used Mechs and Petting Zoo  
****Harlech  
****Outreach  
****14 August 3054**

"Oh, wow, is that what I think it is?"

Bobby's head jerked around at those words. Those words meant someone wanted to buy. And when someone bought, Bobby made money. Stepping out of his office, he spotted them.

Three girls young enough to be his daughters were wandering up and down his mech bay, examining the machines on display. They were blondes, obviously triplets. One was dressed in what look like a Star League style cooling suit that seemed to hug every curve of her body. A second was wearing an unzipped leather jacket with tight, leather pants. The third wore a military dress uniform whose origin Bobby couldn't identify. All three had an unfamiliar unit patch on the shoulder: a red starburst over a pentagonal shield.

"Ooh, we have so got to get one of those!" the leather blonde added.

"Ladies! Welcome to Bolivia's Used Mechs and Petting Zoo," Bobby said, using his well-practiced greeting. "I'm Bobby Bolivia, proprietor. What can I help you with today?"

A young man who looked even younger than the girls walked over to them to see what all the fuss was about.

"What's one of those cost?" the dress blonde asked, pointing up at the mech that they had been admiring.

"Aw, you don't want one of those, Nine," the young man said before Bobby could reply. "It's a piece of junk!"

"But… but, it's a _Centurion_, Twelve!" the suit blonde protested. "We've got to have at least one Centurion. Going into combat just wouldn't be the same without one."

"Look, Nine, our Shadow Hawks are already better than this thing," the boy – was Twelve actually his name? – argued. "They're faster, have more firepower, and have already had the controls customized for us."

"Don't care," the suit blonde said, pouting.

"We want a Centurion," the leather blonde added.

"We could always get the upgrade kit for it," the dress blonde said thoughtfully.

"But…" the kid began.

"Son, lemme give you a piece of advice," Bobby interrupted as he threw an arm companionably around the boy's shoulder and incidentally, dragged him away from the girls. "Never, ever tell a lady 'No' when they're shopping. That leads to all sorts of badness that you don't want."

"But we can't afford to buy a whole new mech right now," the kid wailed, "especially not the upgrade kit. Do you have any idea what Extra Light engines cost?"

"I sell mechs for a living, of course I do," Bobby said smoothly as he ushered the kid out. "But that's no problem. I know a guy who does loans. Ask around for Jaws."

"Jaws?"

"Some obscure historical reference," Bobby told him. He turned around and went back to the girls. "Sorry about that, ladies. Now, what can I help you with again?"

"We want to buy the Centurion," the suit blonde replied.

"And an upgrade kit to go with it," the dress blonde added.

"Well, let's see," Bobby began, his brain quickly computing the price figures. "This is an old CN9-A… I think I can let it go for oh… a nice round figure of four million C-bills."

The girls frowned. "Isn't listed value of the A model precisely three million, four hundred ninety one thousand, and five hundred C-bills?" the leather blonde asked.

"Uh, something like that," Bobby said quickly. "But you gotta take into account the losses during the Clan Invasion. Mech prices have skyrocketed, you know."

"I think we got ripped off," the dress blonde murmured.

"Pardon?"

"When we got to Outreach, we made some quick cash by selling some extra mechs we had refurbished at listed prices," the dress blonde explained.

Something clicked in Bobby's head as he made the connection. "Oh, hey, you're with that new merc company, the one with the clones? I think I have a few of your Archers in stock."

"We're the Freedom Fivers," the suit blonde said proudly.

"And we're robots actually," the leather blonde added. "Our race is called Cylons."

"That doesn't bother you, does it?" the dress blonde asked, looking at Bobby closely.

"Girl, as long as you got cash you're willing to spend, I wouldn't care if you were a three foot tall, gray alien with an oversized noggin bent on conquering the entire Inner Sphere," Bobby said truthfully.

"Ha! I love the Inner Sphere!" the leather blonde laughed.

"We're Nines," the suit blonde told Bobby. "So how much?"

"Now, lessee..." Bobby continued. "The D upgrade kit comes in at just under six million C-Bills…"

This time, the girls all visibly winced.

"I'm not sure we have enough leftover cash for that," the dress Nine said slowly.

"Frak that," the suit Nine replied. "I'm getting that Centurion if I have to trade in my Shadow Hawk for it!"

That's what Bobby liked to hear. He smiled. Yes, the Inner Sphere was going to love these Cylons… if it didn't kill them first.


	5. Episode 4: Ten Ideas

**The Fifth Column  
Episode Four: Ten Ideas**

**16 August 3054  
****MIIO Safe House  
****Harlech  
****Outreach**

"Sydney, what the hell happened?"

"I got caught, Michael," Sydney replied irritably. "That's what happened. I just haven't figured out how."

"Ok, start from the beginning."

**15 August 3054  
****Fighting Fivers Dropship  
****Harlech Interplanetary DropPort  
****Outreach**

Sydney quietly entered the dropship's darkened mech bay and quickly slid into the shadows. Only two mech cubicles were actually empty. Those would be for the Cylons' two newly acquired mechs which were in the Mech yards being upgraded. The mechs here were the ones the Cylons had brought with them to Outreach. One mech – an Archer - was well lit. It was being worked on by two of the red headed clones, Elevens if Sydney recalled correctly.

The light was a blessing in a way. It created deep shadows that Sydney could hide in. It also completely ruined the night vision of anyone working under it, reducing the chances of any of the Elevens from spotting her to practically zero.

The Archer was partially opened up, so Sydney decided to not waste the opportunity. She raised her tiny camera and snapped off a few quick photos of the exposed innards. These Cylons claimed to have rebuilt these machines from mechs captured from Periphery pirates. Although Sydney was no expert on battlemech engineering, even she could see that at least one of this Archer's single LRM-20 launcher had been replaced with a stack of four LRM-5 racks. Sydney couldn't even begin to guess what kind of advantage this might confer and she didn't even try; that was what technical analysts were for after all.

Of more interest were the heads. Except for the two new acquisitions, all of the Fighting Fivers' mechs had been custom refitted with their own electronics and sensor suites. No one knew what the capabilities of this system were. The only obvious external change was a thin slit that when active, had a red light bobbing back and forth. Sydney took a few pictures of the heads, but no internals for those were exposed where Sydney could see them.

The Archer's slit pulsed. Sydney froze. Then the slit stopped pulsing and an Eleven climbed out of the cockpit. Sydney relaxed. Obviously, the activity had been a maintenance test. None of the clones showed any alarm, so Sydney figured she had not been spotted. Still, it was time to move on.

This particular Dropship was a Fortress class, a rare sight in the Inner Sphere these days. Sydney's bosses had wondered where the Cylons had found it. The going theories were that they had either found a wreck or shot one down. The proof was on the outside; there were some extremely obvious welds on the armor in a cracked, spider's web pattern. But aside from putting it back together again, the Cylons haven't appeared to make any major changes or upgrades. For instance, there was a service ladder right where the standard Fortress specs said it was,

Taking the service ladder – elevators presented too much chance of getting caught - Sydney made her way up to the next level. This should have been the vehicle bay, with accommodations for the deployment of a company of twelve heavy vehicles. And here was the first major deviation from the standard Fortress. The Cylons had switched swapped out heavy vehicle bays for light vehicle bays and crammed the resulting extra space with a mysterious… something.

It was a cylinder of some sort, but not any sort of fuel tank. Power and data cables were plugged into it at seemingly random. The power cables plugged into the floor, and presumably to the fusion engine below. The data cables plugged into the ceiling; all of the Dropship's computers would be located on the upper decks. Sydney circled the machine, snapping off pictures all the while.

There was a darkened data terminal on the mystery machine. Next to a terminal was mounted an object that resembled a sink of all things. The sink was even filled with some kind of milky white liquid that was slightly luminescent. Sydney snapped a picture of that too, and hoped like hell that the Cylons weren't idiotic enough to leave something radioactive just lying around in the open.

The terminal came alive with the touch of a keystroke. Apparently, the terminal had been in sleep mode. On the screen was a wire frame diagram of Dropship and a bar graph. Unfortunately, all the accompanying text in a script that Sydney had never seen before. The script was blocky and looked more derivative of a Western style alphabet than the Eastern ideographs sometimes favored by the Kuritas and Liaos.

Before Sydney could take any pictures of that, the screen blanked out. Then it printed in big bold lettering the word, GOTCHA!

"You know," a male voice spoke behind her, "there are laws against breaking and entering on this world."

Sydney spun around and found herself staring the barrels of a gun. The holder, one of the Tens, was standing just beyond arm's reach with an automatic pistol held in a rock steady hand.

She was caught.

**16 August 3054  
****Fighting Fivers Dropship  
****Harlech Interplanetary DropPort  
****Outreach**

Hours later, Sydney found herself tied up with duct tape. The Fivers were arguing what to do with her. Weirdly enough, it didn't look like a military-style command level meeting. Each clone model had a representative present, as if they were some kind of bizarre democracy.

"Don't we have rules for this sort of thing?" the One asked.

"Yeah, but we made those rules for dealing with pirates," the Twelve replied. "Those rules sorta implied that the ship doing the capturing was a Basestar, not these itty bitty dropships. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like lugging her," he pointed at Sydney, "around all over the Inner Sphere."

"Ooh, does that mean we get to kill her?" the Eleven said a bit too eagerly. "I suppose we could just dump her out the airlock."

"What? Commit murder?" the Ten objected. He was the same one that captured Sydney. "We are not going to kill her. That would be wrong."

"We're on a planet," the Eleven pointed out. "She could survive the fall. Theoretically."

"No way," Ten said stubbornly.

"Whatever," the Nine said, rolling her eyes. "Can we just make a decision? I'm missing my beauty sleep here."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Ten here," One said regretfully. "Moral issues aside, killing her - or even just making her disappear - would no doubt just anger her employers, whoever they are. At this stage, we do not need to involve ourselves in a blood feud with the humans if we can avoid it."

"But… but she was sneaking around and stuff," Eleven protested. "We can't just let that pass unpunished."

"We also cannot afford to afford a feud," One argued.

"Bored now," Nine added.

"Shouldn't we like - I dunno – ask her who she works for?" Twelve asked.

"Does it matter?" Eleven replied. "It's probably one of those spy organizations that pop up like weeds around here, or maybe an organized crime ring…"

Actually, Sydney thought to herself, it was both at the same time. But no way was she going to tell them that.

"So she's either a spy or a crook, huh?" Ten said thoughtfully. A very nasty grin slowly spread across his face. "I got an idea. And the best part is, it's the right thing to do."

**16 August 3054  
****MIIO Safe House  
****Harlech  
****Outreach**

"And that's when they called the cops?"

"Pretty much," Sydney confirmed. "I got picked up by a couple of Elementals that were a bit too amused at my situation. Thanks for bailing me out, by the way."

"No problem," Michael said. He sighed. "You realize that your cover here on Outreach is pretty much toast, right?"

"What?" Sydney said in surprise. "Okay, I guess I have a criminal record now, but the Fivers never told the anything about me being a spy. Why is my cover blown?"

"I just got word that it's all over the Harlech that a burglar had been bailed out of jail by a known spy," Michael said disgustedly. "Of course, they don't know who I work for, but our counterparts from the other Houses do. As of right now, we and the MIIO are the laughing stock of Outreach's entire intelligence community."


	6. Episode 5: Film at Eleven

**Fifth Column  
Episode 5: Film at Eleven**

**17 August 3054  
****Mech Yards  
****Outreach**

The district known as the Mech Yards was the finest service yard for battlemechs on Outreach and arguably in the Inner Sphere. By themselves, they drew in thousands of mercenaries whose battlemechs were in need of repair and refit. Hordes of the best trained technicians were available to service a mech's every need.

Of course, sometimes a unit wanted to use the yards, but not pay for the technicians. Instead, they relied on their own in-house techs to do all the work and only paid rent for facilities in which to work. The Fighting Fivers were one such group. Given certain proprietary technologies that they had (and a certain extravagant purchase of an XL engine which left them in something of a budget crunch), the Cylons felt that their own small horde of cloned technicians were more than capable of doing all the work that needed to be done.

"You guys did what with my Victor?"

Some humans might have disagreed.

"We replaced the short ranged missile launcher with one of our long range missile launchers," the Eleven repeated.

The model Eleven Cylons appeared as young, teen-aged girls with red hair. Unlike the outgoing Nines, they tended to be shy around strangers but were friendly and helpful once Jake got to know them. They seemed more comfortable working with machines than people, which Jake supposed was why they filled the "tech" role in Cylon society.

"Okay, that's what I thought you said," Jake said slowly. "Look, you guys did a fantastic job on restoring my mech and all and I'm grateful but… ah, why the change?"

"Why not?" the Eleven asked, puzzled.

"Look at it this way," another Eleven added. Both Elevens that Jake was talking to were in their "work clothes", meaning almost identical coveralls except for the pattern of old oil stains on them. This made telling them apart nigh impossible for Jake who was having difficulty to begin with. However, this one had a smudge of oil on the tip of her nose. "You get a lot more range for roughly the same mass and endurance."

"I already got a gauss rifle," Jake pointed out. "You just pulled out a third of my short ranged firepower for what looks like only a trivial bit of additional long range damage."

"Why's that?" the first Eleven asked.

"Because LRMs have trouble locking on to anything that's less than a hundred and eighty meters away," Jake explains slowly, as if to a child. He saw the two girls grinning at him. "What?"

"Not our LRMs," the Eleven with the nose smudge said.

"Our missiles use our electronics," the first Eleven added with pride. "Unlike the poopy seekers everyone in the Inner Sphere use, our LRMs will be armed right out of the launcher and will hit anything right in front of it."

Jake practically did a double take. "You guys got Clan missiles?"

"Phttt! Our missiles at least are better than Clan missiles," nose smudged Eleven bragged. "They're smart, capable of working with any bit of electronics gear out there. TAG, Artemis, NARC beacons, you name it. If it exists, our missiles can work with it. And our launchers already have an equivalent of the Artemis IV Fire Control System built into them."

"Ah, this is one of those things you're supposed to not blab about," the first Eleven said nervously. "At least not until we've used in on the bad guys a few times."

"I think I can keep my mouth shut," Jake reassured her. "So, okay, I can see how that LRM launcher is better than the SRM. I withdraw my objection."

The girls beamed at him.

"Okay, what I don't get is how did you guys manage to pull it off?" Jake continued. "From the way you guys talked, I thought all your gear was supposed to be below even Inner Sphere standard weapons."

"Well, yeah," the first Eleven said, looking slightly embarrassed. "Don't get us wrong, but our weapons were inferior when we first arrived in the Inner Sphere. We just had guns and missiles and they were pretty lightweight compared to what's used around here."

"And that armor everybody uses is just amazing," the other Eleven added. "We've been busy during the last few years reverse engineering everything. The missiles and autocannons were easy. The energy weapons... not so much." She scowled. "We can only make the basic lasers and PPC, and only in limited numbers. We actually have to buy the more advanced energy weapons."

"But our electronics were already better to start with," said the first Eleven. "So we just applied that liberally wherever we could."

"Huh," Jake said thoughtfully. "So that's why all your mechs are so LRM heavy."

"Yep!"

"Whatcha thinking, Jake?"

"I'm thinking that we have a scheduled training session with the Dragoons in a few days," Jake said, smiling. "And I think we can give those arrogant bastards a few surprises. So what other surprises do your mechs have?"


	7. Episode 6: There are Twelve Models

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 6: There are Twelve Models**

**13 August 3054  
****Wolf Dragoon Headquarters  
****Harlech  
****Outreach**

"You want me to do what?"

"Get the Freedom Fivers onto the Open Proving Grounds as soon as possible."

"But why? We've got a waiting list for a reason. What makes these guys so special?"

"Look, the Freedom Fivers are not your typical merc outfit. They're actually a unit from a Periphery nation that Wolfnet says sprung up practically over night. How many Periphery nations do you know of that can actually spare a heavy combined arms company or an under strength battalion to go play mercenary?"

"Um, I can't think of one."

"I can: the Clans. They sent us to check out the Inner Sphere. Hell, these Cylons are actually saying they're imitating us!"

"Okay, I get that. But why the big push to get them on the Proving Grounds?"

"Even though they're using old mech designs, they've installed some of their own technology onto them. Let's find out what they can do."

**21 August 3054  
****Observation Room  
****Open Proving Grounds  
****Outreach**

Hmm… salty. And crunchy with a pleasant crispness. Twelve decided that he liked these "potato chips". He made a mental note to have some shipped out to his brothers. At the very least, get the recipe.

"Hey, kid," a voice called.

Twelve looked up, annoyed. These humans were so superficial. They judged by appearances and assumed he was an adolescent human just because he looked like one. Granted, he was actually only a technically a year old and had been created for this particular mission. But aside from that, he was a Twelve like any other, complete with the entire encyclopedic knowledge base all Cylons had. Even those humans who knew better still had that patronizing "he's just a dumb kid" attitude. It was so unfair!

"What?" Twelve said, annoyed.

"You're one of those Cylons right?" the man asked. He was an older gent in a Dragoon uniform with a rank insignia of…

Whoa.

"Yes, sir!" Twelve said, his attitude instantly changing to… Well, he hoped he was projecting respect and not fawning obsequiousness. He grasped the man's hand and began pumping vigorously. "And can I say it is a great pleasure to meet the famous Colonel Jaime Wolf! Yes, yes, fantastic to meet you, sir!"

"Um, yes, I'm sure it is," Colonel Wolf said, trying to diplomatically extract his hand from Twelve's grip.

"Potato chip?"

"No thank you," Colonel Wolf replied. He motioned toward the monitor. On it was something that hadn't been seen since the days of the First Succession Wars: a heavy battlemech company composed entirely of one design. Acting as recon, lances composed of Shadow Hawks and Stingers flanked the mass of Archers to the front and sides. "Aren't you going to watch your comrades in action?"

"Oh sure, when all the explosions and lasers are flying," Twelve replied. "Aside from that? Nah. I'm not much of a warrior type. All the sneaking around the woods bore me."

"So why are you here?"

"Well, I'm a Twelve," Twelve said. "We Twelves are the ones whose personality are most oriented towards engineering and scientific research. As such we wind up designing most of the equipment and technology we use."

"Sort of like a Scientist Caste?" Uh, oh. Did he have that "patronizing kids" look?

"Not exactly," Twelve said. "No one makes us do research. We just get pigeonholed into it because we like doing it. I mean the others like things that go boom. We Twelves like to make things that go boom. See the difference?"

"I think so." Yes! Yes he did!

"So I'm here to see how our stuff stacks up against the best the Inner Sphere has to offer," Twelve concluded.

"Thanks for the compliment," Colonel Wolf said with a wan smile. He nodded to the monitor. "Looks like the action is going to start."

**21 August 3054  
****Dragoon Recon Lance  
****Open Proving Grounds  
****Outreach**

Given all the brouhaha over the Freedom Fivers, Oz had expected better from them. But regardless of whatever mysterious technologies they might have, these Cylons were obviously completely lacking in discipline. The Archer company slogged forward in a clumsy gaggle with no evidence of unit structure at all. In fact, that they had a formation at all was apparently a miracle wrought by the instruction of the lone mercenary commander that they had hired.

Actually, it was rather amusing to watch the poor man's Victor run back and forth, obviously far too busy with trying to keep the Archers herded together to pay attention to trivial matters like, say, finding where the OPFOR was. If he weren't the enemy in today's little exercise, Oz might have sympathized. Today, he intended to take advantage.

"Richard," Oz radioed his lance commander. "Two of the Archers look like they've fallen behind."

"Hmm…" Richard said thoughtfully. "Wolves, it seems a couple of our, um, students have lagged behind. What say we point out to them their error?"

He got a reply of predatory laughter.

**21 August 3054  
****Observation Room  
****Open Proving Grounds  
****Outreach**

"It looks like your two heavies are about to get slaughtered by a light lance," Jaime Wolf commented. It was pretty obvious what the lance commander was thinking. Using his superior knowledge of the terrain, he was going to sneak up behind the two laggards and blast them from behind where there armor was weakest.

"You'd think that," Twelve commented.

At roughly two hundred meters from the Archers, the Dragoon recon lance should have still been hidden by intervening woods. Instead, the two trailing Archers stopped, turned around, and started swiveling this way and that as if looking for something.

_Active probe_, was the first thought that ran through Jaime's mind. Then chaos erupted.

**21 August 3054  
****Dragoon Recon Lance  
****Open Proving Grounds  
****Outreach**

Rounding the bend in the woods at high speed, Richard had expected nice, easy and clean shots at the Archer's backs. Instead, his two Dashers and two Pumas found themselves facing the two Archers head on.

Richard's lance was part of one of the most elite fighting units in the Inner Sphere. They were some of the best, most skilled mechwarriors in existence in some of the most advanced mechs available. With such a lopsided weight of metal against them, they did the only thing that could give them a chance at survival.

They attacked.

Oz's Dasher – configured for reconnaissance – only had a single Streak SRM-4 launcher. It locked on and fired, but could do little more than scratch the nearer Archer's paint.

Nina, the other Dasher pilot, had five Clan-model extended ranged medium lasers and a targeting computer to make good use of them. All five struck the nearer Archer's center torso. The field master computer refereeing the exercise actually ruled that the lasers burned completely through and had nicked the Archer's fusion engine. But while harshly wounded, the Archer wasn't dead.

Had the Dragoons concentrated on one Archer, they might have killed one. Instead, Richard's lance had by chance, split their fire. His Pumas fired on the other Archer.

Sylvie snapped off two PPC shots. Unlike Nina, she didn't concentrate her fire. Still both shots hit, burning deep, simulated gouges in the second Archer's right arm and torso, but without penetrating. Richard volleyed thirty five LRMs – and a NARC beacon - at the same Archer, literally painting tiny craters all over. But again, the field master computer ruled no penetration.

In return, the Archers fired off a volley of fifty LRMs. Each.

The Archers also split their fire, concentrating on the Dashers. It should only have been possible for LRMs with Clan-tech seekers to have been armed and dangerous at such short range, but that was not the case here. Only a handful of missiles missed and Oz's anti-missile system (the only system allowed to use live ammo) blew away a quarter of the missiles thrown at him, but it hardly mattered. The Dashers' virtual frames were practically flayed of what little armor they had started with and then had all their internals blasted as well. In the real world, the newly repainted Dashers were ruled as "dead" and immediately locked up. Given the high speed they were moving at, this sent them into a diving skid into the dirt. Mercifully, they stopped short of hitting anything.

Richard snarled and was about to unleash another volley when _five hundred_ long ranged missiles from the Archer main body fell down on his two untouched Pumas.

**21 August 3054  
****Observation Room  
****Open Proving Grounds  
****Outreach**

"Interesting," Jaime said mildly. The reactions of his Dragoons were a bit more vehement. "I don't recall C3 capability being mentioned in your people's technical specifications. How did you guys manage it and still retain such heavy weight of fire?"

"Well, I don't like to brag…" Twelve began then stopped. He scowled. "Okay, I love to brag, but I'm not supposed to tell you guys anything technical." He continued muttering under his breath, something about "unfair" and "spoiling his fun".

On screen, the less damaged Archer was twisting this way and that, obviously trying to reach the Narc beacon firmly stuck to its leg just above the ankle assembly. Its arm obviously couldn't reach. As Jaime watched, the Archer balanced on one leg, and lifted the other. Then it swatted the beacon like an oversized mosquito, smashing the device to ruins. And the pilot managed all this without falling over. It was perhaps the finest bit of piloting that Jaime had ever seen.

"Hey, aren't physical attacks illegal?" one of the judges suddenly said. "We could… we should halt the exercise and…"

"Oh, don't be stupid, Marcus!" another judge snapped.

**24 August 3054  
****Wolf Dragoon Headquarters  
****Harlech  
****Outreach**

"So did we get anything out of this?"

"Despite the use of older designs, their electronics are very good. Not quite good enough to offset their lack of tactical skill, but I guess that's why they hired this Jake Logan."

"I'll tell you something else. They might have discipline problems, but they learn frighteningly quick. A few more rounds in on the proving grounds and they might have made been able to win one. As it stands, they gave a pretty good accounting of themselves."

"My people are still trying to figure out how they crammed so many electronics into their mechs. One of my people actually thinks they're aliens."

"So what are you going to do about them?"

"Nothing. We're going to let them go about their business, but we're going to watch them. These Cylons talk a good game, but when the battles are real, we'll see what kind of people they really are."


	8. Episode 7: Intercepted Dispatches

**Fifth Column  
Episode Seven: Intercepted Dispatches**

_Analysis of collected intelligence reports indicates that first contact with the Cylon Protectorate was by the Rim Worlds outpost established at the planet Hunter's Paradise on 5 April 3045. Of course, the Cylons had not been using the name "Cylon Protectorate" yet. No one, not even the Cylons apparently, knows when the word Protectorate started being used for their territories._

_In any case, the people on sensor duty swear that the Cylons jumped one of their "Basestars" right into orbit. But of course, that's impossible. Every observed jump they've made since then has been from standard jump points or pirate points…_

- Excerpt of 3059 Comstar ROM memo to Precentor Martial Focht

* * *

"Yeah, that's right. I am the one and only pirate whoever managed to successfully raid a Cylon Protectorate planet. Well, 'raid' really isn't the right term…"

"Okay, so we heard all the rumors, savvy? Pirates and raiders go in, but they don't come out and afterwards, these Cylon blokes are suddenly flying around with the former owners' jumpships and dropships. Anyways, I figure if we could go in fast and hard, we could maybe nick us a pretty piece of loot…"

"…barely touched down on the surface and we were already being circled by fighters. These 'Raiders' looked like crappy little things that could be taken down with one good hit, but there were so many of them! The _Black Pearl's_ computer counted at least two thousand of the little blighters. Even if they were only armed with a machine gun or two, one pass by all of 'em at once would have turned me dropship into Swiss cheese. And the _Pearl's_ hull wasn't exactly up to spec to begin with. Luckily, they weren't shooting yet, but setting foot outside even in a mech looked a might unhealthy like…"

"… spun a wild yarn of how we were poor lost mercenaries with technical troubles. They accepted my story even though they obviously didn't believe a word of it. They even invited me and the crew down to the village for a bit of partying. How could I refuse?"

"…were real friendly like, especially the Nines and Elevens. Oh yeah, REAL friendly…"

"…can't say the 'raid' was unprofitable. Sure we got no loot, but the crew had a fun time, and the Cylons even fixed up the _Black Pearl_…"

- From a 3055 interview with Captain Sparrow by the Inner Sphere Times.

* * *

_Cylon Basestars aren't exactly warships. At approximately four kilometers in diameter and 1.5 kilometers thick, they are the largest jump capable starships in existence. But their function seems to be exactly what their name implies: bases. They exist primarily to service smaller craft and despite establishing a few, small colonies on planets, most Cylons apparently still live on their Basestars. Certainly they're heavily armed, but the lack of anything but the most rudimentary station keeping ability limits their ability to be used offensively. Still, even without docking hard points, an ungodly number of Dropships could be transported just by placing them in the space between the saucers. Luckily, they don't seem to have very many of them._

- SAFE Interdepartmental memo

* * *

…_while they've managed to duplicate standard military armor plating, most of their Basestars and pre-Inner Sphere spacecraft use inferior plating more akin to commercial grade armor than anything military spec. I imagine they're trying to upgrade, but even a single Basestar is going to take megatons of thick plating, and that doesn't even take into account all their small craft and fighters.."_

- Wolfnet Technology Analysis memo

* * *

…_definitively say that Cylons do have FTL communications technology. They use something akin to our Black Boxes, which explains the "noise" our machines have been picking up lately. Analysis of the noise reveals definite traces of Cylon coding. As yet, we have been unable to decipher their transmissions except in instances where their transmissions are carrying Inner Sphere data files. Those appear to be mostly news and entertainment transmissions._

_I'm afraid we might have to scale back use of our Black Boxes. If we can pick up their transmissions, then they can almost certainly pick up ours. However, as they already use FTL comms more often than we do, they might not realize yet that we have the ability to listen in as it were…_

- Excerpt from 3055 Memo from NAIS offices to AFFS command

* * *

…_have generously allowed our Order to establish an HPG station here. Unfortunately, they have allowed the vile Comstar to build their own station as well. When I brought my objections to the Cylons, they genuinely seemed to not be able to understand why Comstar and the blessed Word of Blake cannot both operate HPGs on the same planet._

_There was little I could do. If I simply took our HPG and departed, then those Comstar heretics would have had undue influence on the Cylons. So every morning I look out my office window and see the heretic facility right there on the other side of Cylonville in the shadow of the Hill…_

- 3057 report from Precentor Winn Adami, New St. Andrew HPG station.

* * *

…_known worlds in the Cylon Protectorate are Hunter's Paradise, New Saint Andrews, and Astrokaszy. Although in Astrokaszy's case, the planet doesn't have full Cylon protection, just the parts occupied by the Cylons…_

…_offhand comments by various Cylons seem to indicate at least nine other human inhabited worlds in the Protectorate. However, none of those are on any of our maps. Given the number of human inhabited planets the Explorer Corps has found just looking for Clan home worlds, it should come as no surprise that there are more yet undiscovered in other directions._

_Once the Explorer Corps has finished locating the Clan home worlds, it might be prudent to turn their efforts to mapping Cylon occupied space. Special effort should be made to locate their original home worlds, these Twelve Colonies of Kobol…_

- Excerpt from a Comstar memo

* * *

"…saw how the Cylons have been catching pirates. I was outbound from New Saint Andrews when a jumpship showed up at a pirate point. They sent a Leopard into the planet. Leopard landed and never took off again. Funny thing though: a couple hours after the Leopard landed, one of those Cylon Basestars jumped in right on top of the jumpship. I was too far away to see much, but I imagine the jumpship crew surrendered right away…"

- Overheard in a bar in the Illyrian Palatinate

* * *

_The human population of New Saint Andrews generally has a positive opinion of the Cylon Protectorate. The Cylons generally keep pirates away and help repair any damage caused by raiders that make it to the surface. As a bonus, the Cylons don't levy any "taxes" or even try to police or govern them. The clones generally seemed satisfied to trade and play tourist…_

…_by mutual agreement with the New Saint Andrews government, the Cylons have set up a farming colony on the southern continent of…_

…_Cylon shuttle was the smoothest ride I've ever had in a flying vehicle. Except for some air turbulence during the trip and the stunning vista below, you'd think we were still on the ground…_

…_the first view of Cylonville was the Hill. There's nothing else anyone can really call it. The Hill is a massive bunker complex with some soil and newly planted grass and trees planted covering it. I can't begin to tell you how big this thing feels and I wonder how the Cylons built it so fast. For a start, it's four kilometers in diameter…_

- Excerpts from _Cylons: The New Kids in the Sphere_ by Murphy Brown, Comstar Press ©3058

* * *

_While the Protectorate is not offering any direct military assistance unless we choose to hire their Fighting Fivers mercenary battalion, they are offering logistical support in the form of a single Basestar to ferry supplies and repair any damage your ships may take…_

- Excerpt from a 3059 letter from Precentor Martial Focht to Prince Steiner-Davion

* * *

_Exactly how many of these Basestars does the Cylon Protectorate have?_

_Their Basestar arrived yesterday, but it wasn't one of those monster double saucers of theirs. Oh, no, this Basestar was a new model no one in the Inner Sphere's seen before. Instead of saucers, it's got two flattened pyramid about a kilometer and a half on a side. Not only does it have actual Dropship docking collars, it's even got docking ports for jumpships. When I asked, the Cylons admitted that the new Basestar was new construction._

_Since then, I've had my staff go every bit of intel the various Star League members have accumulated. They've come to the conclusion that we've been seriously underestimating the Protectorate's capabilities. Everyone's been assuming that the Cylon's Basestar fleet is small, but no one's ever been able to get a hard count of them. Everyone knows that most of their industry is space based, but no one imagined it was anywhere near capable of constructing Warships._

_We've all had this idea that the Protectorate was just another crappy little Periphery nation in spite of evidence to the contrary staring us right in the face. Best case scenario is that they're as powerful as one of the Inner Sphere's Great Houses. I'm not even sure that I want to know what the worse case scenario is._

_For now, the Cylons seem friendly. But politics being the way it is, we can't always rely on that to be true. What we really need is an accurate estimate of all their assets. While I'm gone, I suggest…_

- Excerpt from a letter from Prince Steiner-Davion to all Star League House Lords on the eve of his departure for Clan space

* * *

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Alert: FTL transit detected.

**015Basestar:** Acknowledgement: Alert received. Spinning up FTL drive.

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Analysis: FTL signature and location inconsistent with known KF drive technology.

**015Basestar:** Query: Signature consistent with Colonial/Cylon FTL drive?

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Analyzing. Confirmed. Alert: No IFF received.

**015Basestar:** Suggestion: Avoid detection. Remain on passives.

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Quote: "Thanks you, Mr. Obvious!"

**015Basestar:** Statement: Just saying...

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Action: Redirecting Satellite03 for visual observation.

**NewStAndrewsBase:** Received: Visual data. Analyzing...

- Partial transcript of Cylon communications, 43 years Post-Armistice


	9. Episode 8: All This Has Happened Before

**Fifth Column  
Episode 8: All this has happened before…**

Author's Note: Starbuck is dead! Dead I tell you! Bwa!

**12 March 3060  
****Protectorate Recon Patrol  
****Ionian Nebula**

Two Raiders coasted through the relatively thick clouds of the Ionian Nebula. They were old models, an oval shaped flying wing with twin engines and guns.

Since their arrival in the Inner Sphere, the Cylons had upgraded the design as best they could with acquired technology. Small (by Inner Sphere standards anyway) lasers had replaced the original guns and the armor had been upgraded with what the misnamed Thirteenth Colony considered standard. This effectively doubled the Raider's armor so that it could take two or three hits to any location instead of original one or two. Yay, progress!

Of course, the biggest change was the conversion of the three seat cockpit to single seat. That made the Raiders… very roomy inside.

"There must be some way out of here…"

"Nine…"

"Said the joker to the thief…"

"Nine…"

"There's too much confusion…"

"NINE!"

"What, Ten?" Nine replied. "There's no need to shout, y'know."

"You do realize that we're supposed to be on a scouting mission, right?" Ten asked with a patience born of long experience with Nine model quirks.

"What's your point?"

"The point is if you want to play music, that's fine," Ten continued. "If you want to sing to it, that's fine. What's NOT fine is broadcasting it to the universe at large! God, every human sensitive in fifty lightyears must be able to hear that!"

_**Battlestar Galactica  
**_**Colonial Fleet  
****Ionian Nebula**

Colonel Saul Tigh, XO of humanity's last Battlestar, wandered through the corridors of the Galactica. He kept hearing music, and it was getting progressively louder and clearer with every jump the Fleet made. What was worse, only he seemed to be able to hear it. Tigh was convinced it was a Cylon plot.

It had better be a Cylon plot. The alternative was that he was going crazy.

**Protectorate Recon Patrol  
****Ionian Nebula**

"Oh, c'mon, Ten!" Nine wheedled. "There aren't any humans in fifty lightyears of here."

During the early experimentation on humans, the original Model 005 Cylons had discovered that some humans could transmit and receive signals as if they had wireless built in. But these signals were FTL and they provided the basis for the Cylon's FTL communications network. But only a tiny percentage of humanity had this ability at any appreciable level and their skill at using it was sporadic at best, explaining why the vast majority of humanity was unaware that it even existed except for rumors of telepathy.

"That we know of," Ten countered, "which is the entire point of why we're out here to begin with. But it's kinda hard to be stealthy when you're broadcasting all over the place! Now turn off the music."

"But it's so booooring out here!" Nine whined. "There's nothing but stars and pink fluffy clouds of gas. That got old real fast, and we've been out here a long time."

"We've only been out here an hour," Ten pointed out.

"That's forever!" Nine continued. "Why are we out here again?"

"You're out here because Nines are better pilots than the rest of us," Ten began.

"You better believe it!" Nine said proudly.

"I'm out here because you Nines have the attention span of a gnat," Ten continued.

"That is so not true!" Nine protested indignantly. She paused. "What were we talking about again?"

"And the reason we're both out here to begin with is that we're supposed to be looking for a mysterious source of Cylon transmissions that don't belong to us," Ten concluded. "Meaning that there probably is someone out here listening in. So turn off the frakking music!"

"Fine, fine," Nine grumbled. "Turning off the music now."

_**Battlestar Galactica  
**_**Colonial Fleet  
****Ionian Nebula**

The instant Tigh laid eyes on the others, the music vanished. In that instant, he knew. Tigh didn't want to believe it, didn't even want to voice it out loud. But here was the evidence right before his very eyes. Tory Foster, Sam Anders, Galen Tyrol, and he were… were…

"My gods," Foster said. "We're Cylons!"

**Protectorate Recon Patrol  
****Ionian Nebula**

"Hey, look!" Nine said suddenly. "FTL transit signature! Let's check it out."

A quick consulting with each other provided a quick triangulation of the signature's origin.

"Okay," Ten agreed. "But no FTL. You know what happens when that happens here."

One of the Ionian Nebula's more bizarre properties was that any ship jumping in or out generated a massive EMP. The Twelves had a longwinded technical explanation for why that happened, but the end result was the temporary disabling of any ship that jumped into the Nebula.

"Phfft! I'm not an idiot, Ten," Nine said disdainfully as they reoriented their Raiders. Then Nine cranked her engines for full acceleration. "Race ya there!"

"What? Wait! Stealthy, remember! Get back here, Nine!"

**Viper 3  
****Colonial Fleet  
****Ionian Nebula**

"Galactica, this is Apollo. I'm in Viper 3. I have a bogie at my ten. I'm going to check it out."

**Protectorate Recon Patrol  
****Ionian Nebula**

"Ten, I'm seeing a bunch of ships just drifting here," Nine reported. "One of them looks like a Battlestar."

"A Battlestar?" Ten repeated. "That sounds like they're Colonials. They're a bit far from home."

"The Battlestar's launching Vipers," Nine continued. "They look like a mix of Mark IIs and newer types I'm not familiar with." She paused a bit. "Oh, hey, I found our mysterious Cylon source. I'm reading several Type III Basestars about a hundred and fifty thousand clicks beyond the Colonial fleet."

"Interesting," Ten mused. "Do you think the Seven and the Colonials are operating together?"

"Don't see any reason why not," Nine replied optimistically. "Hey, one of the new Vipers is breaking off on a new heading. It's coming my way."

"Okay, back off and wait for me…"

"Frak that!" Nine disagreed. "I'm gonna go play!"

"What? Wait, don't…"

**Viper 3  
****Colonial Fleet  
****Ionian Nebula**

"Whoa! What the frak?!" Lee Adama screamed as something fighter sized flashed past him and vanished. And then it was gone. Lee turned his head this way and that, trying to find the whatever is was. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then a fighter pulled up to fly formation with him on his left side.

It took a longer than it should have for Lee to identify as a First Cylon War era Raider similar to the ones used by the Guardians. This was perhaps understandable as the Raider wasn't painted the standard silver or gray. Instead, it was painted an eye-straining bright pink and neon green in eye-watering swirls and dotted here and there with what looked like flower patterns. It practically hurt just to look at the thing. The cockpit had also been modified and Lee could see a single, solitary, humanoid pilot.

The Raider waggled and its pilot waved an arm at him in friendly greeting.

"Uh, _Galactica_, this is Apollo," Lee said slowly. "You're not going to believe this…"


	10. Episode 9: Decision Making Process

**Fifth Column  
Episode 9: Say Hello**

**12 March 3060  
Cylon Expeditionary Fleet  
Ionian Nebula**

"Frak, it's the Colonials!" the Two known as Cavil exclaimed. "What are they doing here?"

"It looks like they're drifting," the Seven known as Simon replied serenely. A hint of a smile crossed his face. "It appears they've run into the same difficulty we had. Thank God we arrived first then."

When the Cylons had jumped in, some resonance effect between their FTL drives and the Nebula had generated an EMP that had temporarily disabled their power systems. They had just gotten them back online when the Colonials had appeared… and suffered the same fate.

In the meantime, there had been that music that had started coming from the Nebula. Oddly enough, it was being picked up by the Cylons' resurrection network. The popular theory was that the transmitter was a beacon left behind by the Final Five. Or maybe it was the voice of God himself. Whatever the case, the resurrection network was purely passive, and had no way to effectively reply.

Well, no, that wasn't quite true. They could have blown up all their ships and hoped their souls were picked up by whoever was playing the music. That idea had gotten shot down right away.

Not that Boomer would have objected if they had taken her sarcastic suggestion. Since the New Caprica fiasco, she had sunk into a depressive funk. The only reason she hadn't committed suicide was that the frakking resurrection net would just keep bringing her back. The only reason she participated in these command councils was that at least she had some say on what the Cylons did.

Oh, and Boomer was also one of the "Heroes of Cylon". That gave her opinions more weight than normal, but New Caprica and Caprica Six's defection had eroded that. Still, any influence was better than no influence.

"This is perfect!" Cavil said gleefully. "We can wipe them out now before their FTL drives come back on line."

"I thought we weren't hunting the Colonials any more," Boomer said. As much as Boomer hated that other Eight for stealing her place on the Galactica, and as much as she hated the Galactica crew for going along with that replacement, something in Boomer still didn't want to see her former comrades die. So Boomer walked a fine line, trying not to assist them without being too obvious about it.

"I agree," Simon said. "Whatever Caprica Six's other faults, she was correct about…" He stopped as a new development occurred.

The music had stopped.

"The Voice of God has been silenced," Simon said slowly. Then Boomer saw Simon do something that she had come to believe Sevens to be incapable of. Simon got angry. "The Colonials are obviously responsible," Simon concluded. "The Sevens vote to attack."

"As do the Sixes," the representative Six added. "Perhaps God's voice will return if we destroy the Colonials and our traitors in their midst."

"Voice of God or not, we certainly can't have the Colonials telling the people of Earth stories about us," a Five added thoughtfully. "They might poison relations between us before the Thirteenth Colony really gets to truly know us. The Fives vote to attack also."

"Yeah, yeah, the Twos want to attack too," Cavil growled. "Can we hurry this up already? The Galactica is launching Vipers."

"It seems we are fated to fight eternally with our parents," the Four known as Leoben mused. "Who are we to deny God's will? Attack."

"The Eights abstain due to," here the speaking Eight threw Boomer a glare, "lack of consensus."

"Finally!" Cavil growled. As the Raiders started launching, Boomer heard Cavil mutter under his breath, "We really need a faster way to make decisions around here."


	11. Episode 10: How Not to Say Hello

**Fifth Column  
Episode 10: How Not to Say Hello**

**12 March 3060  
Battlespace  
Ionian Nebula**

"…should I do?" Lee asked after he finished his report.

That was the question, wasn't it? Admiral William Adama reviewed the situation. The Fleet was disabled and it would be several minutes before they could spin their FTL drives back up. Lee was flying formation with an old-style Cylon Raider with what appeared to be a friendly (Ha!) humanoid Cylon pilot. And then there was the modern Cylon fleet sitting right over there doing nothing.

Had the Cylon fleet not been there, Adama would have written off the old Raider as a Cylon trick, a diversion to draw the Vipers away from the Fleet. As it stood now, Adama was still inclined to write it off as a trick, albeit one that was either badly executed or one tripped early.

Adama was inclined to just blow away the old Raider, but he didn't want his son to do it by himself. There was too much chance Lee could get killed. On the other hand, he couldn't detail any Vipers to do the job without uncovering the Fleet…

"Status change!" Dualla suddenly called out. "Cylon fleet is launching Raiders!"

Humph. Decision made for him then, Adama thought.

"Apollo, Galactica Actual," Adama said into the hand phone as Tigh began directing the Vipers to Fleet defense. "Leave the Raider and get back here!"

"On my way," his son replied. There was a slight pause and the blip indicating Apollo's Viper started heading back toward the Fleet. "Uh, Galactica, the Raider's staying on my wing like it was glued there." There was another pause. "Sorry, Galactica, I can't shake it. Otherwise, it's not making any hostile moves."

Adama gritted his teeth. Just what he needed, he thought sourly. Complications.

* * *

"You know, this isn't going to work," Boomer said in the most bored tone she could manage. If she betrayed any concern for the Fleet, then no one here was going to listen to her.

"Don't be so negative," Simon replied. "God may yet bless us with victory."

"What's going to happen," Boomer said with very real exasperation, "is that the Raiders are going to charging into the teeth of Galactica's guns and into her Vipers. They'll kill maybe one Viper – if we're lucky – and punch a few dents into Galactica's hull. And just when they start making head way, the Fleet will jump away and we'll be left with nothing but a hundred odd new Raiders to rebuild." Boomer paused, glaring at her fellows. "C'mon, guys. We've done this how many times?"

There was a pause as the others turned this over in their minds. Boomer could see that although they didn't like her analysis, they at least were accepting it. Thank God. Maybe she could pound some sense into the Cylons yet.

"She has a point," the Five known as Aaron Doral admitted. What was it with the Cylons that they put all the named ones on the command council? "We're throwing resources away to no good purpose here."

"Right. So we recall the Raiders?" Boomer asked.

"No, I don't think so," Cavil said thoughtfully. "What we need is a change of tactics."

"Like what?" a Six asked.

"Frak the Galactica and frak the Vipers," Cavil spat out. "Hit the civilian ships."

"What?" Boomer blurted out.

What had she done?

* * *

"Galactica, Apollo," Lee radioed. "My Raider just peeled off."

Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies, frowned. As a civilian, there was little that she could do here. This was entirely Adama's show. Still, her mind had been trying to figure out what the old Raider had been up to.

At least it was easier to think now that she didn't have to hear that music anymore. As much faith as she had in the Lords of Kobol, as much as she looked to the visions they sent for guidance, sometimes their very cryptic methods just tried her patience to no end.

"What…" Roslyn began.

"Galactica, Athena," another transmission came. Athena was their resident friendly Cylon. While Roslin had doubts about Adama accepting the Boomer copy into Colonial service, she had to admit that Athena had given no cause for doubt… beyond being a Cylon of course. "Six Raiders have broken off from the battle. Oh, God, they're heading for the civilian ships!"

"Dammit!" Lee broke in. "My Raider's joining the ones going for the civilians! I'm in pursuit."

"Sir! First ships will be ready to jump in two minutes," Gaeta reported.

"We don't have two minutes," Adama said bleakly.

"Raiders appear to be headed toward…" Dualla began. She paused as she double checked her information. "Probable target is the Space Park."

"Oh my gods," Roslyn breathed. "There are nine hundred people on that ship."

* * *

Studying these new Raiders, Nine wondered how they a pilot was supposed to fit into that little thing. She supposed that if a Cylon lay prone and depended entirely on direct interface, you could cram on in. Of course that left the little issue of blood rushing to or away from the head during high G maneuvering.

They also didn't seem to feel like talking. But no self-respecting Nine would let something as trivial as a metaphorical cold shoulder stop her. Nine opened a channel to the Raiders.

_Hiya! I'm Nine. Whatcha doing?_

_The response was gratifyingly instantaneous. The content was just… odd._

_hunt-huntprey-thereprey-Master-come?_

_The big, fat, slow ring and needle? Why would you want to hunt that? There's no challenge in it!_

_confusion-notprey?-hunt-hunt-Master-notapprove?_

_confusion-notprey?-hunt-hunt-confusion-Master-notapprove?-confusion_

I'm not saying you shouldn't hunt what you like. But why would you want to hunt that?

confusion-hunt-prey-Masterdesignated-confusion

Why?

confusion-Masterdesignated-confusion

Why?

confusion-confusion

Why?

* * *

"Sir," Dualla called out, not quite believing what she was seeing. "The Raiders have stopped their attack run. They're…" Dualla searched for the appropriate words. "I'm not sure what they're doing."

"It looks like…" Colonel Tigh began. He hesitated, obviously not quite believing what he was seeing on the Dradis screen either. "Bill, it looks like your son's Raider is hacking these guys."

* * *

"What is that doing there?" Cavil said, dumbfounded by what he was seeing.

Their strike against the civilians had been stopped cold by an old Type I Raider. After what the Colonials had dubbed "the Great Cylon Turkey Shoot", the Cylons had upgraded the Raiders' software so that traitors couldn't hack them anymore. But what was happening wasn't hacking per se. The pilot of Type I was throwing questions at the Type II Raiders that they were ill-equipped to answer, throwing the entire strike force into confusion.

It was… elegant, Boomer thought.

"Could this be a sign from God?" Simon mused aloud. "Perhaps we should break off the attack."

"No, I don't think so," Doral said slowly. "No, we know the Colonials encountered and destroyed the Guardians shortly before settling New Caprica."

The who? Boomer accessed the Cylon database just long enough to learn who the Guardians were. They are – or were in this case – a bunch of the original Model 0005 Cylon Centurions who objected to being replaced with the dumbed-down modern ones, so they took a prototype Type II Basestar and headed off for parts unknown.

Right now, Boomer could sympathize with the old toasters.

"They must have captured one of the Guardians' Raiders and have one of the traitors flying it," Six concluded. "We should make them pay for their sacrilege."

"Yeah," Boomer said, her voice as heavily laden with sarcasm as she could possibly manage. "Because nothing says respect and honor like being junked and recycled against your will."

Several of the others looked uncomfortable at Boomer's statement. Cavil just shrugged his shoulders and sent out the order.

* * *

The first burst of fire took Nine by surprise. If her Raider's armor hadn't been upgraded to Inner Sphere standard, there was no way she could have survived it. As it was, her right wing's armor was badly chewed up, but everything under it was intact.

But Nine didn't even think about the damage.

"Oh, you did NOT just shoot at me!" Nine snarled, instantly slamming her fighter into evasive maneuvers. She evaded another couple bursts of gunfire. "That's just… just rude!"

Nine locked onto the first Raider that had shot at her and triggered her "small" lasers.

* * *

Watching the enemy Raiders meander aimlessly about had been kind of funny, Lee thought. Nerve-wracking because he had no idea how long that would last. The old, psychedelically-painted Raider was the most likely culprit, so Lee wasn't very surprised when the modern Raiders opened fired on it.

He was surprised that the old Raider survived the opening volley. And thankfully, that headache-inducing paintjob had been ruined, revealing a more eye-friendly gray underneath.

Lee was even more surprised when the old Raider destroyed one of the modern ones with no evidence of gun fire at all. In the resulting fireball, Lee thought he saw twin lines of light like…

No way.

"Galactica, Apollo," Lee transmitted. "The old Raider's fighting the Cylon strike force. And I think it's using some kind of directed energy weapon to do it!"

* * *

"Dammit, Nine," Ten muttered as he watched Nine's get into a fight. He was willing to bet she had aggravated someone into shooting at her too. It wouldn't be the first time a Nine had done that.

Ten dithered. On the one hand, he had to stay intact and get his Dradis recordings back to the Protectorate. There was no point in picking up Nine's memories if and when she got blown out of the sky. His Raider's limited storage capacity was already filled to the brim with what he assumed were these new Raider pilots. There was a surprising number of them.

On the other hand, he was a Ten. One things Tens were known for was loyalty. They NEVER left any of their own behind if they could help it. The experience of the Fighting Fivers as passed on to the rest of the Protectorate only reinforced that attitude.

"The hell with it," he said to himself. Ten spun his Raider about to face the Colonial fleet where Nine was. In the distance, he could see flashes as the Colonial ships started jumping out. He was about to gun his engines to max acceleration when he received a message.

_STOP_

* * *

"You don't need missiles, Nine," Nine parroted to herself as she evaded fire. "You're just going on a scouting mission, Nine." She spun and blew away another spindly Raider. "You need fuel more than firepower, Nine." Her Raider shook as a bullet penetrated and went through said extra fuel tank. She automatically jettisoned the leaky thing. "Well, frak that!"

Her lasers carved through the last enemy Raider. There was no explosion. The lasers hit on either side of the fuselage, neatly cutting the wings away and reducing the engines to so much junk.

Nine looked around. No one else seemed to be attacking her and that Viper just seemed content to watch. A quick check of her Raider's status showed that it was more open space now than operational fighter. She really needed to land somewhere and check out the damage.

Hmm… that Battlestar looked convenient.

* * *

"What the hell?" Ten muttered.

_…spin singularities at zero point two…positron generation can be created by…_

Okay, this was freaky as hell. The distant Basestars had spun their FTL drives up, but they were varying the spin at seemingly random. However, the harmonics created by the spins were resonating with the Colonials' FTL drives, forming a pattern Ten's systems could interpret as Cylon code. As the Colonial ships jumped out, the Basestars compensated. But the really freaky thing was that no one could possibly see the pattern at all unless they were in the exact spot where Ten was.

Subtle.

_…mass increases with velocity at the…DO NOT SACRIFICE YOURSELF…contains the chemical compounds adenine, guanine…_

"Nine's in trouble," Ten said, double checking to make sure he wasn't transmitting. "I've got to help her."

_…quantum entanglement causing…NINE LIVES…star spins at roughly nine point three two…NINE HAS HER ROLE TO PLAY…fusion occurs when…_

"I'm not leaving her," Ten growled as he gunned the engines. The resonance shifted to keep the transmission intelligible.

_…recalling Vipers…ALL THIS HAS HAPPENED BEFORE…adjusting vector by five point nine five…ALL THIS WILL HAPPEN AGAIN…_

"Yeah, yeah," Ten said. "Won't be the first time a Ten had to save a Nine's butt. Won't be the last either."

_…Type I has boarded Galactica… DO YOUR DUTY… jump requires approximately…_

"Dammit!" Ten said as the Battlestar jumped out. It had been the last Colonial vessel and the weird transmission had stopped when they were all gone. Nine's Raider was nowhere in sight. And the other Cylons' Raiders were showing an unhealthy interest in him.

He turned around and began plotting a jump.


	12. Episode 11: What We Think We Know

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 11: What We Think We Know**

**12 March 3060  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

As soon as the airlock's inner door swung open, Nine was confronted with a line of guys in black body armor and face-concealing helmets. They were carrying cool-looking automatic weapons at the ready. She was flattered that the ship's commander had sent her an honor guard.

Given that she was on a Colonial Battlestar, Nine opted to use Colonial Standard instead of Inner Sphere English. After all, the chances were pretty good that the Colonials hadn't learned English yet.

And the others said Nines couldn't think. Ha! She'd show them!

"Hi!" Nine said cheerfully. "I'm Nine!"

The welcoming committee lowered their weapons and aimed them in her direction. There was the distinct sound of bullets being chambered.

"Was it something I said?"

* * *

"That was interesting," Roslin commented as the new Cylon was led away. "I don't think I've ever seen that particular model before. And I think I've gotten to know every one in the Fleet that's her apparent age while I was a teacher on New Caprica."

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone so unconcerned about having a dozen rifles pointed at them," Adama mused aloud. He spotted their friendly neighborhood Cylon in the crowd breaking up. "Athena, come here a moment."

"Let me guess, sir," Sharon Agathon said as she joined them. "You want to know about the Nine models."

"Good guess," Adama replied.

"As you've probably guessed, Nine is one of the Final Five," Sharon began. "We… uh, the Cylons don't talk about the Final Five." She frowned thoughtfully.

"Well, you're not with the Cylons anymore," Adama pointed out. "So feel free to talk."

"Sir, that's just it," Sharon said, obviously disturbed. "Now that I think about it, I don't know anything substantial about the Final Five. All I know are rumors about them spoken by word of mouth. I've never downloaded any information about them from the Cylon network. Frak, sir, until Nine stepped out of that airlock, I didn't even know what any of the Final Five looked like!"

* * *

"What do you think?" Anders asked.

"She's not exactly what I was expecting," Foster commented. "Then again, we don't really know anything about her."

"What do we do?" Tyrol asked. "She can probably ID us as..." He looked around. No one was nearby, but they were in public after all. "You know," he finished lamely.

"We avoid her as much as we can," Tigh decided. "Don't any of you even think about assassinating her; The Fleet needs to know what she knows too badly."

* * *

"You guys boxed the entire Three line?" Sharon asked, aghast at the idea.

"It was a majority decision," Caprica Six explained. "D'anna was showing extremely unstable behavior. Most of us were afraid that she might have spread her mania to the other Threes." Six hesitated, and then added, "Although I'll admit that my reasons were a bit more personal."

"Okay, I know that I'm an outsider and all," said Karl Agathon, Sharon's human husband. For some reason, everyone referred to him by his call sign, Helo. "But punishing an entire group for the actions of an individual seems kind of… I dunno… extreme?"

"In retrospect, it does look that way," Six admitted.

"No kidding," Sharon said, shaking her head.

"I wonder," Helo said thoughtfully. "How much the object of D'anna's quest played into the decision to box her?"

"What do you mean?" Six asked.

"Just between what you two can say about it," Helo began to explain, "it sounds like there's a deliberate campaign to suppress any knowledge about the Final Five among the Cylons. Anyone who really looks for hard info on them gets boxed. The only reason you can't suppress knowledge about them entirely is because you know that there are twelve humanoid models and five are obviously missing."

"That's… that's impossible!" Six protested, obviously shocked.

"There has to be some other explanation," Sharon added.

"Okay, what is it?" Helo challenged.

Neither Cylon could think of one.

* * *

**Cylon Expeditionary Fleet  
****Periphery**

"Boomer."

Boomer looked up. Among the communally minded Cylons, finding a private spot where no one would bother you was a bit difficult. Well she finally found one even if it wasn't totally private. But Boomer doubted the others would ever really listen to anything the Hybrid had to say. The Hybrid's chamber was usually empty when a command council wasn't being held.

"What's up?" Boomer asked as an anonymous Eight came into view. This Eight had no name, being one of the majority who had never infiltrated human society. But there seemed to be a hint of authority about her that most Cylons barring Boomer herself usually lacked.

"Boomer, I'm a bit concerned about you," the Eight said. "You're looking up information on the Final Five. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

"Why?" Boomer asked. "I'm just trying to figure out where those Type I Raiders came from. I mean, look. When the Final Five left, it looks like a good chunk of our War era Basestars and Raiders disappeared at the same time. But I can't verify that because some joker put some kind of security lock..."

"Boomer, please stop," Eight said, wincing. "You have to stop trying to get at those files. If you continue, the others are going to box you, Hero of Cylon or not."

"What?" Boomer exclaimed, startled.

"We Cylons do not talk about the Final Five," Eight told her. "Please, Boomer. We can't lose you too."

Boomer stared at the other Eight. Looking at her ID code more closely, Boomer noted that among other things, this Eight had a very low number. If Boomer calculated it right, this Eight was one of the oldest in the entire Cylon Empire. She had actually been around before the Final Five had vanished. That was… interesting.

"Okay," Boomer finally said. Suspicions were beginning to take root in her mind. "I'll stop trying to access those files. Happy?"

"Thanks, Boomer," the Eight said, relieved. Satisfied, she walked off.

"But I didn't say I wouldn't ask around," Boomer muttered under her breath once the older Eight was out of earshot.

"…neutron stars pulse at a rate of…choose to be either a victim or you can make your own fate…mary had a little lamb…"

Boomer glanced over at the babbling Hybrid.

"You know what?" Boomer said to the Hybrid. "You're right. I think I've done enough moping. It's time I made my own fate." Boomer looked to the door the other Eight had disappeared through. Her next words came out as a growl. "God help the Cylons."


	13. Episode 12: Checking Each Other Out

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 12: Checking Each Other Out**

**13 March 3060  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Madame President. Admiral," Lee Adama said warily in greeting as he stepped into his father's office. After the strain Baltar's trial had put on his relationship with the two of them, Lee didn't want any more tension than was already between them. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Captain Apollo," President Roslin replied. "We did. Thank you for coming."

"Madame President, as I'm sure my father informed you, I'm a civilian now," Lee said. Okay, given all the shouting and hard feelings lately, Lee felt the two of them were being far too friendly towards him. Hell, his dad looked amused at Lee's obvious discomfort.

"Yes, he did," Roslin said, as if the matter were of no consequence. Was Lee paranoid or did her smile have a slightly predatory gleam? "As you're currently unemployed, I'd like to offer you a position on my staff."

"Um, what would I do, Madame President?" Lee asked cautiously.

"When we first met, I asked you to be my Military Advisor," Roslin began. "Since you're now available, I'd like you to hold that position full time."

"Full time?" Lee echoed. "What would I be doing?"

"For a start, we'd like you to interrogate this new Cylon," Roslin answered.

"Uh huh," Lee said neutrally. "And if I refuse?"

"If you were on the President's staff," Admiral Adama spoke up, "the military could overlook the theft of a valuable military asset: namely one Mark VII Viper." He leaned back, a far too self satisfied expression on his face. "But if you aren't, it would set a bad example if we just let any random civilian steal military hardware and let him get away with it unpunished."

"Unpunished?"

"I suppose we could let you off with some community service," his father blithely continued. He scratched his chin melodramatically. "What could we have you do? Well, there's a certain Cylon that needs interrogating…"

Oh, Lords, they were double-teaming him!

* * *

Chief Tyrol walked around the new Raider, a feeling of deja-vu crawling over him. Here he was again, with a captured Cylon Raider, full of mysterious technology that the Colonials had no previous experience with.

Of course, the differences pretty much ended there. This was a First Cylon War era Raider that was slightly modified. The Galactica had the original Raider's specs in its library, so Tyrol had something to compare this one to.

Oh, and Tyrol now knew that he was a Cylon.

Unlike the first, nearly pristine Raider that Tyrol had examined only what seemed like an eon ago, this Raider looked ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. The damned thing was so perforated with bullet holes that even with all the lights being on the ceiling, the Raider had only the slightest hint of a shadow.

Even the cockpit wasn't spared. The glass was entirely gone and there were several obvious entry and exit holes. There was even what looked like a miniature refrigerator in there loaded with small metal cans filled with some kind of beverage; a round had punched through the bottom, bounced off a door, and gone our the top. A few cans had survived, but the spillage smelled an awful lot like beer. It was a pity that the surviving cans had been sent to Cottle for testing.

That the pilot hadn't been hit was a miracle.

* * *

"Hi!" the Cylon said cheerfully when Lee walked into the interrogation room. Since the holocaust, the room had been set aside for the interrogation of any Cylons captured. It had two very tough chairs that were securely enough bolted to the floor that even a Cylon couldn't tear them loose and use them as weapons.

Lee didn't reply as he took the seat opposite hers. As he did, he studied the Cylon. She looked absurdly young, as if she should still be in school. It was, Lee supposed, why the Cylons hadn't use this model for infiltration. Even before the holocaust, no one in their right mind was going to let some kid get at classified material.

She wore a standard orange prisoner's uniform that was far too large for her from the Astral Queen. The sleeves hung loosely over hands and feet, barely hindered by the shackles she…

Lee blinked. She wasn't wearing her shackles!

"You know, this waiting room could use a magazine, or maybe a couple puzzle books," Nine said, sounding aggrieved. She held up the useless shackles that should have been able to withstand Cylon strength. "I mean, this puzzle you guys provided was nice and all, but I figured it out in two minutes!"

* * *

"Okay, tell me again why I'm doing this instead of interrogating Nine?" Sharon Agathon said grumpily as she examined Nine's personal gear. She held up a piece. "One chest plate. Dented. Looks to be made out of the same stuff as the Raider's armor."

"Because there are only so many jobs you can do at one time," Helo told his wife, duly writing down the item on his notepad. "And the Admiral had a hunch that you ought to examine her stuff for any Cylon booby traps."

"One thigh guard, right side I think. It has a gun holster built in with some kind of pistol still in it," Sharon listed off. She turned the thing over and shook it, but he gun didn't fall out despite looking unsecured. "I know the official reason, Helo. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but it feels like I'm not being full trusted." She grabbed the gun handle and tugged. It came right out.

"I suppose you should feel paranoid," Helo replied. "But I think you're jumping at the wrong thing. I'd be more concerned about why the Cylons are suppressing all knowledge about… Sharon?"

Sharon was staring at the pistol in her hand in wonder, as if she had never seen anything like it before. As far as Helo could see, it looked like a perfectly normal - if oversized – automatic pistol. The only thing different from normal pistols was a little red light that was right under the muzzle.

"Sharon?" That shook his wife out of her trance. She turned to Helo.

"I have to take this to the shooting range," she said suddenly.

* * *

Even though he knew better, Lee waved the guard back. He should have had Nine put back in shackles… welded on this time! But Nine wasn't behaving aggressively. She also wasn't behaving like previous Cylon prisoners. They had been aware that they were being held captive by enemies and acted accordingly. Nine was… well Lee wasn't sure what Nine was acting like.

"So, you're a model Nine Cylon," Lee began.

"Yep, that's me!" Nine said cheerfully, playing with the shackles. She seemed to be trying to tie them in knots.

"Now, I haven't seen any Nines before," Lee began.

"That's okay, I've never seen you before either," Nine said sympathetically. She held the shackles up and beamed at Lee. Some how, she had created a reasonable facsimile of a humanoid form. A loop of chain formed the head and the shackle ends formed arms and legs. "You like?"

"Um, no," Lee said.

"Oh," Nine said, crestfallen. She frowned at the chain and shackle doll. "Stupid metal and chain puzzle thing," she muttered. Without looking, Nine tossed he shackle doll over her shoulder where it neatly landed in a corner.

"Now look," Lee said with as much authority as he could muster. "I'm going to ask you questions and you're going to tell me what I want to know. Otherwise…"

"Okay!"

"…things will get very bad for…" Lee paused in the middle of the standard interrogation spiel. "What did you just say?"

"Okay!" Nine repeated. "As in yes, go ahead, ask your questions. God, are you always this slow?"

The guard behind Lee coughed; it sounded very much like a suppressed laugh. Lee shot him a glare over his shoulder, but the guard only had a professional non-expression on his face.

"Okay, then," Lee said, turning back to Nine. "You're going to tell me about yourself…"

"Sure," Nine interrupted agreeably. "I like flowers and green growing things, especially when they're thick and freshly cut and did you know that there's this flower that grows on Hunter's Paradise which a has the most wonderful petal pattern that kinda reminds me of that time Twelve tried to…"

* * *

"Okay, Sharon, we're at the range," Helo said when the couple took an empty lane. "What's going on?"

"Hey, what's up guys?" Anders asked. Sharon's hurry seemed to have attracted a small crowd in her wake.

"This," Sharon began, holding up the pistol, "came in with our new Cylon friend. I'm about to conduct a little experiment with it."

"What kind of experiment?" Anders asked, a bit wary. He was known to be one of the biggest Cylon haters. He'd started a resistance organization against Cylon occupiers twice: once on New Caprica, and once on that planet's namesake.

"Watch this," Sharon said, slamming a clip into the pistol. She closed her eyes and without even turning towards the target, raised the gun and fired seven rounds down range in quick succession. Sharon opened her eyes, ejected the clip and hit the button to bring the paper target in.

On the target, the bullet holes formed a smiley face perfectly placed on the head.

* * *

"…and oh my God, that Nine just would not let me fly her new brand new Raider, the ho…"

"Yes! The Raider!" Lee broke in. No, he did NOT sound desperate. "Tell me about that!"

"Her Raider?" Nine said, blinking at Lee's vehemence. "Um, okay. It's the latest model, with just about all the latest features, sorta like that new car I saw on the Shopping Channel the other day and that thing had the cutest little…"

* * *

"Chief, how goes the inspection?" Athena asked as she walked up.

"Well, we just pulled off the lasers," Tyrol told her as he climbed out from under the Raider. "It took us forever to figure it out, but it turns out the laser cannons are mounted on rails. Just loosen a few screws, unplug the power and data feeds, and the thing just slides right out." He shook his head. "I should have known."

"Why should you have known?" Athena asked, looking at him strangely.

"Well, because… I'm a, ah, I'm an engineer," Tyrol stammered awkwardly. He couldn't very well say that he was a Cylon, one of these Final Five he had been hearing so much about.

Of course, things were even more awkward given that once Tyrol had been lovers with one of Athena's "sisters", the number Eight Cylon known as Sharon "Boomer" Valerii. Of course, he hadn't known Boomer was a Cylon then. But Athena was an exact copy of Boomer, right down to having memories of their relationship up until the time of the Holocaust. Just to distinguish the two in his mind, he always thought of this Sharon as "Athena" and the other one as "Boomer". It helped… barely.

These days, Athena was married to Helo and Tyrol was married to one of his deck crew. Both couples even had children who were in day care together. Oh, and his wife Cally absolutely loathed Athena, although Tyrol wasn't sure if it was really because Athena was a Cylon or because of Tyrol's prior relationship with Athena's "sister".

Yeah, "awkward" didn't begin to describe their working relationship.

"So where are the lasers now?" Athena asked, interrupting Tyrol's thoughts.

"Gaeta took them over there," Tyrol told her, pointing to the other side of the Raider. "He said something about seeing how much power they used…"

There was a flash out of the corner of Tyrol's eye down in way where Gaeta was conducting said test. This was followed immediately by the overhead lights in the bay going out and a nearby fuse box exploding in a shower of sparks, plunging them into

heavy shadows and suggestive highlights. It wasn't completely dark because the lights outside the work area where the Raider was being examined were still on. Their fuse boxes were perfectly fine.

"Sorry, sorry, my fault," Gaeta said as he rushed past them.

"So," Tyrol began. "What brings you down here, Athena?"

"I had an interesting experience with a gun," Athena said cryptically. "I wanted to see if I can access the Raider's onboard computers. I won't be in the way, will I?"

"Well, you're in luck," Tyrol said dryly. "I was just about to stop work on the Raider to go fix the lights."

* * *

"…and then she said I should use the neon green paint instead of the natural because it was prettier and I said plants don't look like that but then she said, hey, who's that?"

Lee blinked at the sudden stop. Then he realized that instead of going off on another pointless tangent, Nine was asking him a question and pointing at the door. Turning around, he quickly stood up and took a couple steps to join the new arrival.

"Madame President," Lee greeted. He almost added, "Thank the Lords you came!" but managed to hold his tongue.

"Captain Apollo," Roslin murmured to him. "I see you've gotten the prisoner to talk."

"Talking is not the problem, Madame President," Lee told her. "The problem is getting her to shut up long enough to ask questions."

"I see," Roslin said. She took a step forward to address Nine. "Hello," she began.

"Hi, I'm Nine," the Cylon said cheerfully.

"Yes, I know," Roslin said. "I'm Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies."

"President? Cool!" Nine said happily. She frowned in confusion. "But you're a long way from home. Shouldn't you be back at the Colonies doing President-type thingies?"

Roslin stiffened. Ooh, Lee thought, that was almost the worst thing she could possibly have said.

"I would be," Roslin answered tightly, fury barely kept in check. "Unfortunately, you Cylons decided to nuke the frak out of them all!"

Nine opened her mouth. She closed it again without uttering a sound. For the first time since Lee had entered the room, the talkative Cylon was at a complete loss for words.


	14. Episode 13: Cylon Hunting

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 13: Cylon Hunting**

**13 March 3060  
****Basestar  
****Cylon Expeditionary Fleet  
****Periphery**

When Boomer had been in ROTC, she had gone to the Caprica City University for a couple years to get the general education required to be an officer in the Colonial Fleet. Reviewing the data on the Cylons' two year infiltration of the Colonies with a morbid fascination, Boomer was fairly certain that her university education had really happened, unlike the memories of her life prior to that.

One class Boomer had taken was a statistics class. This gave her the skills to use powerful Cylon statistical analysis programs that her professor would have given his first born for to a use the original programmers had never imagined.

Of the Twelve models of humanoid Cylons, six were still officially part of Cylon society. There was no mention of the other half of the Cylon race in any database that Boomer could access that didn't have a certain red flag that Boomer had learned to recognize. Of the remaining six models, a whopping five per cent of individuals had also been boxed, again for reasons unspecified.

With just over half the Cylon race's data out of her reach – for now, Boomer thought darkly – she turned to the half whose data she could access.

She started with the Cylon ID code. The code wasn't so much a proper name as a serial number along with brief appended data that was a basic summary of the individual Cylon's life. The appended data, Boomer thought, was akin to a soldier's medals, each code representing significant actions in their lives.

Starting with the serial code, Boomer looked over the data carefully. First byte was a model identifier. Next was a long string that basically said this Cylon was the X number ever created. That made it useful in estimating how old an individual actually was since creation date wasn't included. Interesting, approximately eighty three percent of all Cylons were created after the time Boomer estimated the Final Five had disappeared.

One other interesting data point: the decision to conquer the Twelve Colonies had been made at about the same time the Five had vanished. Boomer filed that one away for later consideration.

Feeling more confident, Boomer checked her own ID code. She was one of the newest Cylons, her creation occurring at the same time as the start of the Sleeper program. Hell, the bitch who had stolen her memories and her place on the Galactica was older than Boomer!

In fact, only a few Cylons were younger than herself. On a hunch, Boomer checked the number of Cylons younger than her against the number of true deaths among the Cylons during the long chase of the Galactica Fleet after the Holocaust. It was an almost exact match.

Hmm, all the Sleepers were about the same age. Reading back over the data on the Sleeper program, Boomer realized that all the Sleepers were exactly the same age. The Sleepers were Cylons specifically created to believe that they were human, with a few hidden programs to forward the Cylon agenda. They weren't pre-existing Cylons who chose to have their memories edited. So Boomer and 2541 others like her went through the motions of being human, their experiences giving the second wave of infiltrators - those who knew what they were from the start – convincing social skills to pass as human in Colonial society.

Of the Sleepers themselves, all of them had by now been resurrected back into Cylon society. A shocking eighty two percent had been boxed in the three years since the Holocaust. Quickly formatting a search program, Boomer quickly ransacked chat logs for mentions of the remaining ones. Reading between the lines, Boomer found an almost universal behavior pattern among the Sleepers, herself included. They were moody, brooding, and generally showed signs of anti-social behavior, Boomer herself included.

Of course, Boomer thought bitterly. For all their lives, they had thought they were human. Humans were the good guys. Cylons were the bad guys no one had heard from in forty years. They had lives, friends, and in some cases family that had gone up in nuclear smoke when the Cylons had attacked the Colonies.

And the rest of the Cylons thought the Sleepers would just become happy little toasters once they realized what they were? How the frak did these morons ever manage to pull off the Holocaust?

Moving on, two Sleepers had managed to escape with the Galactica fleet. One was Boomer of course. The other… was on this very Basestar.

Bingo.

**Basestar  
****Cylon Protectorate  
****Periphery**

"What in God's name is this thing?" One asked.

Several images were on display of the unknown Cylon fighter encountered at the Ionian Nebula. Estimated stats of its size and abilities scrolled through the assembled command council's collective heads.

"It kinda looks like our new Raider design," Eleven said thoughtfully. "Except that it's been shrunk. And had the cockpit removed. And someone let their dog fly the thing…"

"It is our new Raider design," Twelve said knowingly. "Sort of. Only these guys cut all sorts of corners to make this thing."

"How do you know that?" Ten asked sharply.

"Because we Twelves designed the original Type II Raider," Twelve answered. "It's not quite as big as the latest model, but we didn't have Inner Sphere technology back then. The original Type II was supposed to be bigger than this puppy." A dreamy expression came over his face. "Oh yeah, bigger engines. Bigger guns. Bigger missile payload. Capable of outperforming a Colonial Mark II Viper…"

"Ew…" Nine commented in disgust, sidling away from Twelve.

"Hey, snap out of it!" Ten said, slapping Twelve on the back of the head.

"Ow! Not so hard!"

"So why is this one so small?" Eleven asked. "It doesn't seem very effective."

"Yeah," Ten agreed. "I mean, a handful of Vipers held off hundreds of these things. Granted, they had Battlestar support, but still…"

"Actually, it's not that bad performance wise," Nine interjected. "But the pilots of these things are total idiots. I mean, look at that! They're charging around in tight, easy to shoot packs while getting in each other's lines of fire. There's no mutual support of discipline at all."

"Pot, kettle," Eleven stage whispered.

"Hey, we're not that bad," Nine protested.

"That's only because of Major Logan's training and six years of combat experience accumulated by the Nines in the Fighting Fivers," One said. "But we are drifting from the topic at hand. Twelve, please continue."

"Yeah, so anyway, we had the Type II Raider designed right?" Twelve began. "So we showed the file to everyone and said, 'Hey, let's make this thing!' And guess what happened."

"Hmm, I'm going to even bother pulling up the file and just make a wild guess here," Ten said. "The Sanctimonious Seven didn't like it."

"Right on the money," Twelve replied. "Engine's too fuel hungry, they said. The guns need new ammo that we need to make, let's just use the old, weaker ones since we already have ammo for. Ooh, we don't want to risk our precious asses, let's make a dedicated pilot. Any idiot can fight, so let's minimize the brains the pilots need. Hey, we have lots of room left over; let's make the thing smaller and more fragile. Who cares if these things get blown up, we can just make more!" Twelve paused. "God, I'm glad we left before they got the resulting abortion into production. Just seeing this record is enough to make me cry."

"Aw, there, there," Eleven said comfortingly, patting Twelve on the shoulder.

"Look on the bright side," Nine told Twelve brightly. "You get figure out how to kill these things en masse. That'll show the Seven!"

"Kill them en masse?" Twelve snorted derisively. "That's easy. We already did."

**Basestar  
****Cylon Expeditionary Fleet  
****Periphery**

His name was Fenton Crackshell. By the time of the Colonial Holocaust, Fenton had been employed as an accountant for two years by a company that was subcontracted by the Fleet to ship supplies to and from various bases around the Twelve Colonies. He had fallen in love and married a secretary from the same company. Fenton and his wife had been on the Rising Star for their honeymoon when the Cylons came.

The destruction of the Colonies had hit them hard. Fenton coped as best he could. After all, this wasn't the first tragedy in his life. He remembered that his parents - the only immediate family he had – had been killed in an avalanche while vacationing at a ski resort on Picon only a few years before. But his wife had come from a big family that had been very close knit. She couldn't cope nearly so well, and had killed herself by walking out an airlock between jumps 153 and 154 during the infamous 33 Minute Week.

Despite having lost everything and everyone he had ever loved, Fenton endured. As an accountant, he had no skills the rag tag fleet of refugees needed. But he offered his help where he could. He was willing to do what ever work needed to be done. Fenton even volunteered to help with the ice mining during the first water shortage, but had been rebuffed. The Astral Queen's former inmates had provided more than enough personnel.

He began hearing rumors that Cylons could look just like humans. Fenton had been skeptical, pointing to rumor mongers how impossible that was. He was adamant on the subject, pointing out that the Cylons would love for the refugees to destroy themselves in a witch-hunt frenzy. And Fenton kept on doing so until one day he caught a shuttle to the Galactica and detonated the explosives laden vest that he had donned that morning.

Fenton Crackshell was a Five.

Stepping into Fenton's quarters, Boomer was immediately assaulted by the sheer smell of the place. The room was a complete pig sty, dirty laundry decorated everything. What little she could see of the bed sheets were not their original color. And Boomer didn't even want to begin guessing what that was growing on the walls. Half the lights were broken, throwing everything into shadowy twilight.

Fenton obviously never let the Centurions in here to clean the place up.

"Well, if it isn't one of the Heroes of Cylon!" Fenton proclaimed loudly. He was obviously drunk, sloshing around a mug filled with… something. Boomer carefully avoided examining his state of hygiene. Fenton took a swig from the mug then slammed it down on a rickety metal table that had seen better days. "So what does the Hero want with this poor, benighted nobody?"

"I came to see you, Fenton," Boomer said slowly.

"Well Lords of Kobol damn me… oh wait, they already did," Fenton mumbled. "I'm gonna have to increase the stench some more. Keeps regular Cylons out, but not Hero level Cylons…" He took another slurp from the mug. "So, whatcha want, Hero?"

"I thought maybe we could talk and… I'm sorry," Boomer said in a rush. "But from the logs, I thought you hadn't left your quarters in six months. Where are you getting your drinks from?"

"It's amazing what Cylon biotechnology can do," Fenton replied, waving at a cobbled-together conglomeration of pipes and unidentifiable organic parts housed in a Centurion torso shell. "This baby literally pisses beer!"

"Okay, I really did not need to know that," Boomer muttered under her breath.

"I started building it right after New Caprica, y'know," Fenton said, turning maudlin. "I actually believed in you back then, that humans and Cylons could live in peaceful harmony. Gods, what a good con that must have been!"

"Yeah," Boomer said sadly. "We all conned ourselves with wishful thinking. I got so caught up trying to make the Cylons stop trying to wipe humanity out, that I forgot that the fleet regarded us as the implacable enemy bent on their annihilation." She laughed bitterly. "Me especially."

"Yeah, the Cylons are just a bit out of touch with reality," Fenton agreed, carefully studying the contents of his mug. "Personally, I think it's this projecting thing. If we don't like what we see, we just imagine it's something else and wish it away. Except that it's not really gone; we're just refusing to see it." He laughed. "But that doesn't really work in real life, does it?"

"Huh, I never thought about it that way," Boomer said, surprised. She made a mental note to stop using projecting except for purely functional purposes.

"Of course you didn't," Fenton said. "No one does. And no one wants to hear it either, so they don't." He held up his hands and mimed throttling someone. "Someone ought to take the Cylons and shake them out of their happy dreamland."

"Yeah, someone should," Boomer agreed. "Where do you suggest we start?"


	15. Episode 14: Press Conference

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 14: The Press Conference**

**14 March 3060  
****Brig  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Hi, I'm Nine!"

Caprica Six examined her new brig mate carefully. Well, as carefully as she could considering that Nine was in the cell opposite hers. Nine's hair was as blonde as Six's, although straight and pulled back in a messy ponytail. She also seemed relentlessly cheerful.

Six had never believed in D'anna's quest for the Final Five. In addition to a rather personal grudge, Six thought D'anna had simply gone crazy. And yet, here was a Cylon that Six had never seen before.

"I'm Six," Six said cautiously. This was the first real meeting between the sundered halves of the Cylon race in decades. Six felt that this was a moment too important to be ruined by a careless word.

"Cool," Nine said agreeably. "So did you guys really nuke the Twelve Colonies?"

"Yes," Six said shamefully. Would that decision keep coming back forever to haunt her half of the Cylons forever?

"Huh," Nine said thoughtfully. Then she brightened. "Well, welcome to the Inner Sphere!"

"Thank you," Six said gratefully, even though she wasn't sure what this Inner Sphere was.

"No problem," Nine said. "I guess the first thing you ought to know is that there's an Inner Sphere law against nuking civilians," she continued in an equally cheerful voice. "If you do it, then we'd have to hunt down and kill you all."

Six stiffened. Was she serious?

"So what's there to do around here?" Nine asked.

**17 March 3060  
****Conference Room  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Madame President, ladies and gentlemen of the Quorum, members of the Press, thank you for coming," Admiral Adama began. He stood behind the podium at the front of the conference room, addressing the conference. "Five days ago during the battle at the Ionian Nebula, we captured a new model of humanoid Cylon that no one in the Fleet has ever seen before..."

"You mean there are more?" someone asked, causing a stir in the crowd. They were obviously remembering the early days when no one knew what Cylon infiltrators had looked like, and paranoia had been rife throughout the Fleet.

"Please, hold your questions until the end of the briefing," Adama said patiently. "But to answer your question, yes. According to our information, there are five models beyond the seven with which we are familiar. We have a model Nine, but we still don't know what the others look like. Here to present what we know is our own resident Cylon expert, Lieutenant Sharon Agathon. Lieutenant?"

"Thank you, sir," Sharon said as she took center stage. Sharon was nervous though she didn't let it show. She had given information on her former brethren before, but that had always been in one-on-one, personal conversations. This was the first time she had ever addressed such a large and diverse gathering. Despite her acceptance into the Fleet, she could practically feel the accusing stares glowering in her direction, blasting her for her Cylon heritage.

Sharon held up a remote and pressed a button. Behind her, a color coded diagram appeared on screen. It almost looked like a pie chart, except that the creator apparently had no concept of straight lines or even divisions. Various blobs clung around the edges like hungry amoebas. And to belie the chart-like impression, a dozen points were scattered throughout the image each with a single label, while a legend appeared in the corner indicating that this thing was a map.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this," Sharon waved at the image, "is the Inner Sphere, a volume of space spanning at least one thousand light years. From what we've been able to glean from our new Cylon guest and her fighter's navigation database, all this belongs to the Thirteenth Colony and her daughter colonies."

A stir went through the room. Even at the pinnacle of their space exploration, the Twelve Colonies had never tried to claim even a fraction of this much territory. For that matter, the sum total of space they had explored in the two thousand years since the settling of the Twelve Colonies didn't amount to even a tenth of this much space.

"Keep in mind that this is a political map," Sharon continued, stressing the last two words, "and that it almost certainly is not complete. Each colored section is an independent political entity of some sort. "From what we've been able to get from the prisoner, each entity is a completely sovereign nation much as our Colonies were prior to the First Cylon War."

And now it was time to drop the bomb, Sharon thought as she clicked the remote again. The image pulled back slightly and fifteen points spread out all over the left side of the Inner Sphere began to pulse red. None of the points were in any of the nations, but a web work of equally red lines connected them, occasionally crossing territory claimed by smaller nations.

"And this, is the Cylon Protectorate," Sharon said evenly.

The room exploded in a storm of shouting and protests and wailing prayer to the gods. This had been planned for, so Sharon held her peace as the Admiral brought order back to the assembled audience.

"So the Cylons have made it here before us?" President Roslin asked as soon as the room was quiet enough. Of course, tt was a deliberately staged question for the benefit of the audience. Roslin had already been briefed on everything being said here.

"Yes and no," Sharon answered. "From what we've been able to put together, there was some kind of schism among the Cylons about twenty years ago. Details are sketchy, but we believe that five models – we call them the Final Five – left Cylon space and migrated here. As near as we can tell, there has been no communications between the Final Five and seven we're all familiar with since the schism. They don't even know about the Holocaust yet."

"Unless the ones chasing us told them!" someone in the back shouted.

"Unless the ones chasing us – let's call them the Seven for convenience's sake – tell the Final Five, yes," Sharon agreed. "However, we can't assume that the Seven and the Final Five are going to be allied as soon as they meet up. The one encounter we observed between the Seven and the Five involved them shooting at each other. On the other hand, there was also no higher decision making apparatus in play on either side, so we can't assume they'll be enemies either."

"Data gleaned from the prisoner," and there were lots of tantalizing tidbits dropped by Nine during her incoherent ramblings, although it took a lot of work to find them and no one could verify the truthfulness in any of it, "seems to indicate that each of these worlds in the Cylon Protectorate are all minor human colonies unclaimed by any of the Thirteenth Colony's larger nations," Sharon continued. There was a chorus of groans as people remembered New Caprica; they all knew what Cylon occupation was like.

"Can we rescue any of these planets?" Quorum delegate Tom Zarek asked calmly.

"That's… not my decision to make," Sharon said, picking her words carefully. "We don't know anything about the strength of the Cylon occupation forces or how many Basestars they have or where they're concentrated. For that matter, the single Final Five Raider we've captured has weapons and armor considerably more advanced than anything we or the Seven have."

"Lieutenant," Roslin spoke again. "I notice that this Protectorate is upspin of this Inner Sphere. From your briefing, Earth would be at the center of this Sphere, yes?"

"That's correct, Madame President," Sharon replied.

"And if I remember my briefings with Admiral Adama," Roslin continued, "we're heading toward Earth from upspin." A stir ran through the crowd. Most people didn't bother to learn the navigation details of their journey to Earth.

"You remember correctly, Madame President," Sharon agreed.

"So can we go around the Protectorate?" Roslin asked. She already knew of course. Like before, this was a staged question and answer routine to make sure everyone understood what was going on.

"Well, there's a slight problem with that, Madame President," Sharon answered. "Because at the moment, we are located right," Sharon turned to the map and planted a forefinger at the very center of the Cylon Protectorate space, "here."

**17 March 3060  
****Brig  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"…billion, nine hundred ninety nine million, nine hundred fifty two thousand, three hundred and six bottles of beer on the waaaall," Nine sang, although calling what Nine did "singing" was something of a stretch. She was apparently tone-deaf. "Take one down, pass it around! Nine hundred ninety-nine billion, nine…"

"God, make it stop," Caprica Six whimpered, holding her hands over her ears. "Please! Make it stop!"

"…on the wall! Nine hundred ninety…"

**17 March 3060  
****Conference Room  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Admiral Adama said as he retook center stage. "So that's our situation as it stands now. We are currently in the middle of Cylon controlled space, surrounded on all sides by Cylons who may or may not know that we exist yet. We have no idea what four of them look like, where they're located, or what their attitudes toward humans and us in particular are. We don't even know if this map we have is genuine or complete fiction. What we need right now is hard information. To that end, I've dispatched Raptors to verify and recon the nearest planets."

Adama purposely declined to mention which planets. After all, the civilians didn't need to know the operational details. And he only said this much because Roslin had persuaded him that the civilians in the Fleet needed to be reassured that the military was on top of the situation. Keeping secrets would only inflame rumors and fan hysteria in the fleet.

As he fielded questions from reporters, Adama figured that the first Raptor would be reaching the nearest Cylon held planet right now, the one named New Saint Andrews.


	16. Episode 15: Planet of Babel

**Fifth Column  
Episode 15: Planet of Babel**

**17 March 3060  
Raptor 2  
New Saint Andrews  
Cylon Protectorate**

As the Raptor jumped into high orbit of New Saint Andrews, Anders could not help but think about the parallels between this and the last mission his pilot Racetrack had gone on with a Cylon. As before, Racetrack unknowingly had a Sleeper Cylon, Anders, with her, although he was ECO and she was pilot this time. They were going to a Cylon occupied world.

And at the end of that other mission, the Sleeper Cylon had shot and almost killed then-Commander William Adama. And reading between the lines of the scuttlebutt from his own perspective of being a Sleeper, Boomer hadn't even realized what she had been doing until Adama had been lying in a pool of his own blood.

Anders wanted to think that now that he knew he was a Cylon, that he would be able to resist any buried programming. Unfortunately, Chief Tyrol had confided in him that Boomer had been having suspicions about her own Cylon-hood long before she had shot Adama.

To say that Anders was a bit anxious was an understatement.

"Okay, Rebel," Racetrack said, using Ander's new call sign. Having started and led two completely different Resistances against the Cylons, it was a given that he'd be labeled something like that. "We're here. Get to scanning and remember what I told you."

"Roger, beginning up the Dradis sweep now," Anders replied. Anders wasn't Racetrack's normal ECO. The guy who was, Skulls, had been grounded due to an accident in the shower that morning. Anders couldn't help but wondering if he or one of his fellow Sleepers had staged the "accident" to get Anders on this mission. At least Anders hadn't woken up someplace with no idea how he got there.

A blip pinged on his screen right away.

"Whoa, contact!" Anders announced. "I have a large object boosting out of the planet's atmosphere. It looks spherical and the war book's working on identifying it." The captured Raider's war book had contained new sensor profiles for over a hundred forty types of ships, shuttles, and fighters, but precious little in the way of technical data. Those profiles had been added to the Colonials' war books, but as expected, the Raptor's limited processing power was taking ages to compare the new contact with the expanded war book. While the computer was doing that, Ander's looked over the raw take. "Okay, either I'm reading this wrong or this thing's got one hell of an exhaust plume for its observed acceleration."

"I think it's got the big exhaust plume," Racetrack said quietly. "I can SEE the frakking thing from here!"

Anders glanced her way. Beyond the windshield, the planet of New Saint Andrews was fully in view. It looked achingly like home. Half the planet was lit by daylight and the other half utterly black, only visible because the planet's bulk blocked the stars behind it. But one bright light was in front of the blackened half of the planet and it was slowly but visibly moving.

Anders' station pinged again, drawing his attention back to it. "Okay, we got a match," Anders announced. "The war book says that it's a Union class Dropship…"

* * *

As the Black Pearl boosted away from New Saint Andrews under a good, steady 1G acceleration towards the pirate point where the jumpship was waiting, Jack congratulated himself on another profitable run. Certainly this had not been a pirate raid, but these days, no pirate in their right mind raided a Protectorate world. Word had gotten around that the Cylons had warships waiting to pounce on any idiot who tried.

Still, that didn't mean pirates weren't unwelcome if they had peaceful intentions. While you couldn't set yourself up as King of your own private Bandit Kingdom, Protectorate worlds were a lovely place to spend plundered loot. And if New Saint Andrews didn't have Astrokaszy's factories and yards to fix up your Dropships' and mech's ills, at least the weather and food stuffs were better.

"Captain, we got a shuttle on radar," Gibbs, Jack's first mate, announced. "No one's sure where it came from, but the design is not in our war book."

"Isn't it, now?" Jack said thoughtfully. That was another reason Protectorate runs were so profitable. Inner Sphere intelligence agencies were all paying top C-bills for any and all data that could be had on Cylon ships. And an unknown design certainly implied Cylon. Even if it weren't Cylon, it probably belonged to one of the Great Houses, meaning the other Houses would want a look at it. Whatever the case, this shuttle meant free money as far as Jack was concerned. "Well, it won't do to be un-neighborly. Hail the shuttle."

* * *

"What the frak was that?" Racetrack demanded.

"I dunno," Anders said. Despite using his call sign whenever they were on duty, Racetrack kept thinking of him as Anders. After all, he had been fairly well known as a Pyramid star before the Holocaust and had become even more famous afterwards by spearheading two separate Resistances. "It doesn't even sound like any dialect of Colonial Standard that I've ever heard. But I think it was aimed at us."

This meant, Racetrack realized, that they had been spotted. Orders were to cut and run if the Cylons saw them and attacked. Well, they were seen, but they hadn't been attacked yet. And while her Raptor was coasting towards the planet, the Union was accelerating away from planet at Raptor at an oblique angle.

"You know," Anders said thoughtfully. "I think that might have been the Earth dialect we just heard?"

"Come again?"

"Well, before the Holocaust," Anders continued. "I read a magazine article once about how Standard pronunciation had changed since the Colonies had been settled. Some eggheads were claiming that if someone today spoke to an original settler, the two couldn't understand what the other was saying."

"That's crazy!" Racetrack said. But she picked up on what Anders was implying. "So what you're saying is that Earth is no longer speaking the same Standard we are?"

"Pretty much," Anders replied. "How do you want to play this?"

Their orders hadn't considered the possibility that the Cylons would let Earth humans operate ships around their worlds. No one even had a contingency plan for this situation. Hell, no one had even imagined that Earth wouldn't speak Colonial Standard! Still, if there was a chance Racetrack could contact Earth directly…

"Get me on the line with that Union," Racetrack told Anders.

* * *

"What the blazes was that?" Gibbs demanded when the Pearl finally received a reply.

"That, Gibbs, is the Cylon language," Jack said gleefully. He could practically see the money pouring itself into his pockets now. The Cylon always spoke Standard English in the Inner Sphere. But when visiting Protectorate worlds, Jack had sometimes caught snatches of the Cylons' native tongue when the clones spoke to each other. And if Inner Sphere spies were paying a lot for scans of ships, they were paying even more for samples of Cylon language.

"Why don't they speak English like normal people?" Gibbs asked.

"Who cares?" Jack said. "The important thing is to keep them talking." He held down the send button. "Cylon shuttle, we did not copy your last transmission. Could you say again?"

* * *

"Okay, I definitely didn't recognize any of that except 'Cylon'," Racetrack muttered. "What do you think, Rebel?"

"I didn't get any more than you did," Anders replied. "But he sounded friendly. Maybe he just called us Cylons?"

"Don't even joke about that," Racetrack snapped. She pressed her transmit button. "Union Dropship, do you have anyone that can…"

Before Racetrack could finish, two FTL jumps flashed ahead of the Raptor and two familiar shapes seemed to lunge out at her.

"FRAK!" Racetrack cursed as she threw the Raptor into evasive maneuvers. As their higher velocity carried them past, the Cylon Seven-style Raiders opened fire.

* * *

"Hmm, looks like that shuttle's going to be a might busy from now on," Jack judged. He shrugged indifferently. "Oh, well. Not our problem."

"What do you suppose that last word meant?" Gibbs asked.

"What? 'Frak'?" Jack said. He considered it thoughtfully. "Sounded like a curse of some sort. Frak. Frak! Fraaaaak! It's kind of catchy. Don't you think so, Gibbs?"

* * *

Sheer inertia carried them past the Raiders and beyond the range of their weapons. The Raiders may have better acceleration than the Raptors, but they had been at a standstill when the Racetrack and Anders flashed past them at a relatively high rate of speed. The Raiders would be able to catch up momentarily, but Anders would have plenty of time to plot and initiate a jump back to the Fleet.

"Frak!" Anders cursed. "We've taken a hit to the FTL drive and the right thruster! Both are out!"

Or maybe not.

"One of our thrusters is out?" Racetrack said, glancing at her own status panel. Both systems were highlighted in angry red. "Damn, we could have used that just now."

"Why now?" Anders asked.

As if in answer, the Raptor started shaking, buffeted by the turbulence of atmospheric entry.

"Oh," Anders said.

* * *

"Huh, this is odd," Gibbs said, studying the feed from the radar. "These two new ones, fighters by their looks and actions, just appeared out of nowhere."

"So they're stealthy," Jack said. "What of it?"

"There was some kind of pulse when they appeared," Gibbs explained. "It looked like a really small KF signature, but weak."

"Interesting," Jack said. Yes, the money was going to be knocking down his front door, yes it was… "Keep recording everything."

"Aye, Captain." Gibbs leaned closer in to the monitor. "One of the fighters jumped out. Yes, definitely jumped. We got a clean signature on that one. It's not KF, but definitely very similar."

* * *

By some miracle, they had both survived planetfall. As Anders helped Racetrack out of the totaled Raptor, he was thankful that the woman was such a good pilot. They had landed on a flat, grassy plain that was thrown into deep shadows by a setting sun that had just ducked out of sight behind distant mountains.

"Frak!" Racetrack said, looking at the twilit sky. "Incoming!"

Anders' head snapped up and spotted the Seven-style Raider heading toward them, obviously going for a strafing run. He and Racetrack were about to run when several missiles streaked in from the side and obliterated the Raider from existence.

A familiar oval shape followed on the heels of missiles, but there was nothing in air any longer that was worth shooting at. The Five-style Raider began circling above their position, but otherwise made no hostile moves against the downed Colonials.

"Why isn't it attacking?" Anders asked in a whisper.

"I don't know, but we shouldn't question our good fortune" Racetrack replied. "Come on, let's…"

Whatever she was going to say was cut off when they heard the sounds of feet trampling through the grass. Turning, they spotted as motley a mob as any that Anders had seen on New Caprica. It the growing darkness, they held lit torches that illuminated the wide variety of very sharp looking farm implements that they were carrying. Their faces were all unique as far as Anders could tell, so they probably weren't Cylons. But their attitude looked… decidedly hostile.

The apparent leader pointed a hoe at the two Colonials and snarled a single word. "Cylons!"


	17. Episode 16: Captive Audience

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 16: Captive Audience**

**17 March 3060  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate  
****Raptor Crash Site**

"Cylons!"

"Don't tell me that he just called us Cylons," Racetrack muttered under her breath to Anders. Her eyes never left the torch-carrying mob and her hand hovered near her holster, ready to draw her weapon on a moment's notice. The crowd seemed to notice, so kept a respectful distance back, but not too far back. Racetrack doubted that she could fire more than one or two shots if they rushed her.

"Um, sorry," Anders replied unhelpfully.

The mob leader shouted something unintelligible at them. Racetrack couldn't understand a word, but the accusing tone was unmistakable.

"Okay, look," Racetrack said to the mob, pitching her voice to carry. She spoke slowly and loudly, hoping that they would understand her. "I can't understand what you are saying, but we are not Cylons!"

The oval Raider passed low over their heads, trailed by a sonic boom that washed over them almost like a physical wall of sound. It wobbled, wagging its wings in a friendly fashion.

"Oh, thanks a lot," Racetrack muttered as her ears rang.

"Look out!" Anders shouted.

As the first body tackled her, Racetrack realized that the Raider had distracted her. She had taken her eyes off the mob long enough for them to charge her and Anders. A hand grabbed her wrist and yanked upwards, the single gunshot discharging harmlessly away into the air.

And then someone kicked her.

**Rapid Response Raider**

Nine observed the tumult going on below with interest. She had been scrambled to take out the Type II Raider that had broken the peace in New Saint Andrews space. After taking it out – hardly a challenge, Nine had hung around afterwards to observe the downed Colonials.

"The Colonials are getting the crap beat out of them," Nine commented in a tone most people reserved for things like the weather. "Should I go down and help them?"

"Exactly what are you going to do?" One asked over the net link. Nine was in touch with New Saint Andrews' hastily convened command council. They were seeing the on site events through her eyes. "Strafing them with lasers and missiles is more likely to kill them than help the."

"Hmm, I suppose I could land and shoot might way in on foot," Nine suggested.

"You cannot be serious," Twelve scoffed.

"Betcha I could," Nine teased.

"I'm sure you'd try, but no," Ten said.

"Spoilsport," Nine said.

"Uh, exactly why are we debating how to rescue these guys?" Eleven asked, puzzled.

"Because it's the right thing to do," Ten said firmly.

"It's also the law we made," One added primly.

"And it'd be fun!" Nine put in.

"But, they're Colonials!" Eleven persisted. "You know, the guys who enslaved us once upon a time. We don't like Colonials, remember? Back me up Twelve."

"I want a look at that Raptor," Twelve said.

"Argh," Eleven arghed.

"Look at it this way, Eleven," Ten said. "If we rescue them and they make total assholes of themselves afterwards, we could always put them back here."

"Okay, but I don't have to like it," Eleven said. She sighed. "Fine, let's rescue them."

"Cool!" Nine said, turning her Raider into a dive. "I get to play action hero!"

"Um, no, you don't," One disagreed. "We do have plans for this situation."

"Aw…"

**Oz**

The two bloody and bruised Colonials were dragged into the town square and tied side by side to a large wooden log that had been securely planted to the ground. From what little that Anders could see by torchlight, the town bore an uncanny resemblance to the shanty town that had passed for New Caprica's one and only city. Tents and buildings assembled from what ever bits and pieces could be found competed for real estate with the hulks of grounded ships. A good chunk if not the entire town's population was assembled around them.

At least the frakking Raider had gone away.

Curiously, Anders noticed, the crowd was mostly middle aged or older adults. A few kids could be seen, but less than Anders would have expected in a town this size. And there were no teenagers at all.

"Lords of Kobol," Racetrack groaned through bloody and bruised lips. "I don't think I've ever hurt this bad."

"I have," Anders replied, equally pained.

"When was that?"

"Caprica," Anders grunted, shifting his position so that it didn't rub his bruises quite so badly. As least nothing seemed broken. "I dropped a building on myself."

"Why'd you do a stupid thing like that?" Racetrack asked.

"It was a coffee shop full of Cylons," Anders told her.

Racetrack coughed up a laugh. "Smart move."

There was a stir in the crowd as a young man was shoved to the front. He was relatively young compared to the crowd, late twenties or so Anders thought. Between his filthy clothes, an obvious need for dental care, and a general air of unhealthiness, he could have been mistaken for any civilian Colonial refugee.

There was a quick conversation between the mob leader and the man. Reluctantly, the man turned to face the Colonials.

"Greetings! Me Ragetti. I say Cylon words. I change word of Sao Feng to you understand," the man said to the Colonials in very broken Colonial Standard. "You Cylons hear Sao Feng."

"We. Are. NOT. Cylons!" Racetrack enunciated slowly but clearly.

"Uh, yeah, not Cylons!" Anders echoed. Somehow, it didn't seem like a good idea to admit that he was.

Ragetti turned away and relayed their words to the mob leader, Sao Feng if Anders understood correctly. Sao Feng, and then the crowd broke into harsh laughter. When they clamed down, Sao Feng spoke again.

"Sao Feng, not you believe," Ragetti told them. "You say Cylon words and not English words. All Inner Sphere say English. You two say Cylon, but not say English. You two is Cylon."

"Frakking toasters!" Racetrack muttered under her breath. Then she addressed Ragetti again. "Come on! Do we look like Cylons to you? Cylons look alike, you know."

Please say no, Anders thought frantically as Ragetti consulted with Sao Feng again. Please say no…

"Sao Feng say not matter," Ragetti relayed. "None here see Cylon out armor of."

"Armor?" Racetrack murmured.

"I'm guessing they mean Centurions," Anders whispered back.

"And Cylons only say words Cylons," Ragetti added. "You say Cylon words. Say meaning?"

"Look," Racetrack said in as reasonable tone as she could manage. "I'll say it again: we are not Cylons!"

"Yes, that's right," Anders added, as Ragetti ran a running translation to the Sao Feng and the mob. "We…uh, speak Cylon words because our people were the ones that made the Cylons. Then they…"

Anders was drowned out by a roar of outrage from the mob.

"I don't think you should have mentioned that part," Racetrack told Anders.

Sao Feng held up a hand and the crowd quieted down. He spoke again at length.

"Cylons, Friend of Cylons, matters not," Ragetti translated. "Cylons our ships take. Our freedom take. Our right to steal take. Now, the Cylons will know angriness of Pirates of Sao Feng!"

"Did they just call themselves pirates?" Anders asked.

"Oh, yeah," Racetrack confirmed.

**18 March 3060  
****The Hill, Cylonville  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Well, it's about time this rescue mission got going. Eleven, what took so long? Equipment's not up to spec?"

"Eh, it's just Colonials, Ten. It's not like there's any reason to hurry."

"Yeah, yeah, I don't like them either. But holding on to grudges is not good for your mental health."

"But grudges are so warm and familiar! I don't wanna let them go!"

"Okay, we're going to have to talk about this when I get back. Or talk with one of the other Tens. In any case, wish me luck!"

"Break a leg! Preferably one of the Colonials'!"

**Oz Penal Colony  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Racetrack woke to all new aches and pains. Sometime during the night she had fallen asleep. Now in addition to cuts and bruises, she had a host of sore muscles from sleeping while tied upright to a wooden stake.

Looking around in the early dawn light, the town square had mostly cleared out, but there were a substantial number of ex-pirates laying about and still snoozing. Sao Feng was up, and he and a few henchmen were busy waking up those still asleep. They seemed to be in a hurry.

"What's happening?" Anders yawned.

"I don't know…" Racetrack began. Then she heard and felt it.

A slow rhythmic pounding could be heard. The stake they were tied to seemed to vibrate in sympathy to the sound. And the pounding was getting closer. If Racetrack didn't know better, she would have sworn that the pattern was footsteps. But nothing could be that heavy and walk…

Racetrack's eyes almost popped out of her head when a giant strolled slowly into view from around a grounded ship. As it entered the square, the ex-pirates rapidly scrambled out of the way to avoid being stepped on. It was a humanoid figure in the neighborhood of thirty feet tall. It was entirely sheathed in armor plate. Where there should have been a face, there was only a featureless black plate. No, Racetrack realized, it wasn't totally featureless; there was a glowing red dot bouncing back and forth.

The Cylons had arrived.


	18. Episode 17: Party Crashers

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 17: Party Crashers**

**18 March 3060  
****Cylon Expeditionary Fleet  
****Periphery**

In the past four days, Boomer's status among the Cylons had risen considerably. The Fives had noticed and spread the word that after Boomer's visit, Fenton Crackshell had started cleaning himself up and coming out of his den. He was still somewhat gruff and anti-social with others, but this was a vast improvement over his previous behavior. No one was quite sure what Boomer had said to Fenton, but the mystery only added to Boomer's reputation.

As for Fenton, Boomer had given him a job. Since he had been an accountant, Boomer had tasked him with the monumental task of analyzing everything there was to analyze about the Cylons. He'd already summed up the Cylon's losses in the last three years in terms of equipment and souls, and he was currently working on a cost/benefit analysis. That justified him looking at data that most Cylons never bothered to examine. It had revealed some interesting facts.

Fact: A large number of Basestars, Raiders, and Centurions were tied up guarding the Twelve Colonies. Despite the refugee fleet picking up Anders' group, there were still human resistance groups on the surface.

Fact: Several Basestars had gone rogue and were now leading a chunk of the main Cylon fleet on its own merry chase around the galaxy. Coincidentally, these Basestars went rogue around the same time the Three line was boxed.

Fact: Pirate activity – once the bane of Colonial shipping and the Colonial Fleet's former number two priority – had practically exploded since the Holocaust. The Cylons had largely ignored the pirate bands when infiltrating the Colonies and now they were paying the price. To top it off, the pirates were apparently based out of a _Battlestar_…

Life, Boomer thought, was good.

"Hey guys, what's up?" Boomer asked as she joined the command council.

"It's about time you got here," Cavil said annoyed. It tickled Boomer's ego that now the Cylons wouldn't even think about having a command council without her. An annoyed Cavil was a bonus. "One of the survey Raiders came back."

"One of them? I thought we were sending them out in pairs now," Boomer said. "What happened to the other one?"

"See for yourself," Doral said.

With those words, alien memories unfurled in Boomer's mind.

_Flash! Jump completed… Taking stock of surrounding… Wing mate present… Planet present… Raptor-prey present… Attack! Chasing prey…_

_HALT! TERMINATE BATTLE MANEUVERS! FURTHER UNAUTHORIZED VIOLENCE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! _

_Confusion… Masters instructions clear… Invalid Master detected… Must inform Masters… Must pursue prey… Wing mate pursuing prey… Self informing Masters… Initiating jump…_

The Raider's memories ended.

"Was that a Basestar talking?" Boomer asked.

"Yeah," Cavil said, troubled. "What's more, the ID signature for a Basestar that we have on record as having been broken up and recycled for scrap."

Boomer checked the Basestar's supposed scrapping date with the time frame the boxing of the Final Five. There was a match.

"What does it mean?" A Six asked, confused.

"It must be a sign from God," Simon said thoughtfully, "a ghost from our past, to instruct us in this time of troubles."

Oh give me a frakking break, Boomer thought. Luckily, she refrained from saying it out loud. She even managed to restrain the impulse to roll her eyes derisively.

"Still, the other Raider is now overdue," Simon continued. "It may behoove us to be cautious about further incurring God's wrath."

"Okay, I'm up with being cautious," Boomer said. "But we need to investigate this and I don't think idiot Raiders are going to cut it."

"God calls to us," Simon said. "I can feel it. We must bring all our selves before him to be judged worthy."

"Oh, hell no," Cavil disagreed. "We are not risking the Resurrection ship!"

"On the other hand, we don't want to send too few forces and risk failure," Leoben said thoughtfully.

This could take a while, Boomer thought cynically as the argument gained momentum.

**Raptor Crash Site  
****Outside Oz Penal Colony  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

The massive Leopard class Dropship effortlessly hovered just half a mech's height above the ground. Any Inner Sphere native who looked would have been amazed that it could do so without blasting a raging inferno below itself to counteract the planet's gravity. It was one of the advantages of having artificial gravity technology.

This made it rather convenient for the two mechs drafted for the job to load the downed Colonial Raptor into one of the Leopard's mech bays. Some Cylons and their human associates argued that artificial gravity made mechs obsolete. But for this operation, Eleven felt that there was a virtue in having giant hands available to pick up stuff like downed space craft.

Or downed pilots. Like her sisters, Eleven didn't see the point of helping their old enemies. On the plus side, she got to examine a genuine Colonial Raptor. Raptors had been used by the Twelve Colonies since well before the Cylons had rebelled, an old, trusty design that had gotten constant refits and upgrades. With a Raptor to play with, Eleven was almost giddy with anticipation. The other Elevens were going to be so jealous.

"Okay, guys," Eleven reported. "The Raptor's in pretty good condition despite being shot down. And I'm in the system too."

"Do you have the coordinates for its home base?" One asked anxiously over the wireless. He had a right to be anxious; One was currently in the jump seat of a jump capable shuttle in orbit, waiting to be sent out as ambassador to the Colonials. Of course, Eleven wondered what One found more worrying: that the Colonials might want to shoot him on sight or that he had a Nine for his pilot.

"Yep," Eleven told him. "It's just like you figured, deep in interstellar space. I'm sending coordinates now."

"And the status of the Colonials?"

"Ten's negotiating with them now," another One relayed. "We should have them shortly."

**Oz Penal Colony  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

It was a Colonial's deepest nightmares come to life.

A thirty foot tall Cylon Centurion loomed over Racetrack, it's horribly pulsing eye staring down at her. Her head barely topped the thing's ankle. Racetrack could feel herself shaking, a full panic attack coming on. But despite that, her military training picked out details of the machine, but those only to heighten her awareness of how helpless she was.

It was… squarish for lack of a better term, all straight lines and sharp angles. Even its head was a block sitting on its shoulders. Not only that, the weapons configuration looked lopsided. Some kind of missile rack was mounted in its right chest. A gun of some kind adorned the right fore arm, but not the left. The gun's muzzle poked out over the thing's right hand. An even bigger gun was mounted on some kind of swivel on the left shoulder.

Overall, it didn't look quite big enough to pick up her Raptor. But it did look big enough to comfortably use the Raptor as a convenient chair.

"Racetrack! Racetrack!" Anders hissed into her ear. That got her attention, pulling her eyes away from the giant Centurion. "Calm down! We have to keep our heads if we want to survive this!"

"Survive this?" Racetrack hissed back. "Look at that thing!" But Anders' words had pulled her mind out of the gibbering panic it had been falling into. The fear was still there, but now her mind was working. "Okay, I'm better, Rebel. Thanks."

""No problem."

Racetrack looked around. Sao Feng was talking, arguing it sounded like, with the giant Centurion. The townsfolk looked on, intimidated and fearful, but not surprised or amazed. They had seen this thing before, Racetrack concluded.

"So what do you suggest we do," Racetrack asked quietly. "I don't think a few explosive rounds are going to bother it, even if we had our guns."

As if in reply, Sao Feng pulled out a Colonial sidearm – probably taken from her or Anders – and put the muzzle to Racetrack's forehead. He began making what sounded like threatening demands to the Centurion. One of his henchmen – not Ragetti for whatever that was worth – drew out the other Colonial gun and held it to Anders' temple.

In response to Sao Feng's demands, the Centurion… laughed. It was a fully belly sort of laugh, complete with shaking shoulders and hands on what passed for its abdomen. When it stopped, it pointed to the Colonials and said something that sounded like half explanation and half threat. It didn't take a genius to figure out what the Cylon was saying to Sao Feng.

Then it lowered its shoulder cannon, and Racetrack found herself staring into a barrel that looked big enough for her to crawl inside. Frak, but she didn't think the Galactica's anti-fighter guns were that big!

"Okay," Anders said calmly. "Now is a good time to panic."


	19. Episode 18: Ground Rules

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 18: Ground Rules**

**18 March 3060  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Contact!" Dualla shouted. "I have an unidentified contact at one hundred, forty thousand kliks. Configuration… unknown."

"CAP is moving to intercept," Helo added. "Ready Vipers are being manned now."

"What's the thing doing?" Colonel Tigh, the current ranking officer in the Galactica's CIC at the moment, demanded. "And someone get the Admiral up here!"

"Nothing," Dualla replied. "The unknown is holding position relative… Hold on, I'm receiving a transmission. It's definitely Cylons. They want to talk."

"Do they now?" Tigh grunted. "Have the Fleet begin spinning up their FTL drives. I want to be able to jump on a moment's notice in case this is a trap. Also, let's keep the CAP between us and the Cylons, but not so far out that they can't get back in a hurry."

"Yes, sir!"

"Alright, put them though," Tigh continued. "Let's hear what the toasters have to say."

"Greetings, Battlestar," a clipped voice said. The accent reminded Tigh uncomfortably of that frakking traitor Baltar. "I am number One, and I bring friendly salutations from the Cylon Protectorate."

**Leopard Dropship en route to Cylonville  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Ouch!"

"Aw, is the big bad Colonial really a big bad baby?" the Cylon skinjob said mockingly. "Well hold still. This cut could get infected. You don't even want to know what bugs the pirates might have been carrying."

Anders winced as the Eleven none-to-gently applied more of the alleged disinfectant to his wounds. Upon being deposited aboard the brick-like ship by the giant Cylon, more normal sized chromejobs had ushered him and Racetrack into the ship's cramped medical bay. A couple of absurdly young-looking Elevens had met them and started treating their wounds, making it pretty apparent that there was no love lost between them and the Colonials.

That they had even bothered to rescue Anders and Racetrack was amazing given their apparent loathing for the Colonials. That had been apparently what convinced Sao Feng to let them go; as human shields and hostages went, Sao Feng realized that the Colonials were pretty worthless if the Cylons were only going to make the barest token efforts to save their lives. To save face however, Sao Feng managed to get a concession from the Cylons. In exchange for the Colonials, the pirate got to keep the Colonials' side arms.

Anders eyed the single Centurion standing guard in the already cramped medical bay. It looked like a cross between the old 0005 models and the Seven's modern Centurions. It was bulkier than a 0005, but moved smoothly like the Seven's model. The contouring of the forearms suggested some kind of built in weapon systems, a pistol rested snugly in a holster built in its right thigh armor, and some kind of long arm weapon clung to its back. Instead of 0005 chrome or modern Seven gray, this Centurion was painted in a digital camouflage pattern using woodland colors. It had been unnervingly silent the entire time the Colonials had been present.

The ship he rode in was also an eye opener. Even with evidence of recent refurbishing and new equipment here and there, it was obviously very, very old. The ship showed obvious wear and tear everywhere from the nicks and scratches on the walls to the decking worn smooth in the centers from endless use. Even the fifty year old Galactica didn't show this much age.

"I am not a baby," Anders replied automatically. He also did not say that he wasn't human. Neither the Elevens nor the Centurions had given any indication that they had recognized him as a fellow Cylon. Anders had thought about using his Cylon status to try and get intelligence from them, but he wasn't about to do so while Racetrack was present to observe.

"That's good," his Eleven said, nodding, "because I am not about to try and change you if you go potty."

"Okay, look you obviously don't like us, and we don't like you," Racetrack said sourly. "So why are you even bothering with this?"

"Because it's the 'right thing to do'," Racetrack's Eleven said sarcastically, even going so far as to make air quotes with her fingers.

"Just so," a middle aged, almost elderly man at the sick bay's entrance said. His Colonial Standard had a formal Caprican accent, suggesting a stuffy, ivory-tower scholar type. "There are certain rules of civility that we choose to follow. And since we choose to follow them," he threw a remonstrating look at the Elevens, "follow them we will, even if on occasion the subjects of those rules are people we do not like."

In response, the Elevens turned as one and stuck their tongues out at him. The man had a put upon air that suggested such immature gestures were far beneath him.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man continued, speaking to the Colonials as the Elevens continued their treatment. "I am Number One. And you are?"

"Why should we tell you who the frak we are?" Racetrack asked.

"Language, young lady," One told her. There was something surreal about a Cylon of all things behaving like some grade school teacher, Anders thought. What was even more bizarre was watching Racetrack stiffen and look abashed like a student caught doing something naughty. "To answer your question, all human militaries both Inner Sphere and Colonial require their personnel to provide certain minimal information in the event of capture by hostile or potentially hostile organization," One lectured pedantically. "To wit: your names, ranks, and whatever respective unique means of identifying you such as a payroll number or some such."

"Lieutenant Margaret Edmondson," Racetrack said grudgingly.

"Ensign Samuel Anders," Anders added, following her lead.

"Ah yes, very good. Thank you," One said. "We will be landing in Cylonville shortly."

Cylonville? Racetrack mouthed at Anders. Anders just shrugged in reply. The name did sound kind of silly.

"As we are not at war," One continued, "you two will be free to wander the town. Sleeping accommodations have been provided for the both of you. Please stay in the town proper so that we may contact you as the need arises. Also, please do not commit any violence barring self defense."

"Yeah, it would be a shame to put you back with the pirates," Anders' Eleven said sardonically.

"Especially since we just went through all that trouble pulling you out," Racetrack's Eleven added.

"Yes, quite," One agreed with a sigh. "Do you have any questions?"

"You said that we're not at war," Racetrack began.

"That is correct, yes," One said.

"So what do you call a sneak attack on the Twelve Colonies?" Racetrack asked with a different kind of pain in her voice. "What do you call it when you frakking Cylons carpet nuked all twelve planets?"

"We did what?" the Elevens chorused, startled.

"Oh yeah," Anders said. "What do you call it when you guys decided to hunt down and kill all the survivors?" he asked, deciding to pick up where Racetrack left off. "What do you call it when you Cylons decide to keep only a few humans around on mother-frakking rape farms for 'genetic research'?!"

The Elevens looked horrified, Anders thought snidely. Even the Centurion had perked up, although the gods only knew what it was thinking.

"Oh dear," One muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

**Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"Remind me again why I'm doing this again," President Roslin said as the welcoming party watched the Cylon jump shuttle being lowered into the hangar bay. It bore a distinct resemblance to a Heavy Raider, only with the front mounted guns removed and short, stubby winglets mounted on the side.

"Because this Protectorate has captured two of my people and I want them back," Admiral Adama told her.

"They also mentioned some kind of trade deal that we might be interested in," Tory Foster, Roslin's assistant, added. "Although truth be told, Madame President, I don't know how serious they are about the offer."

"How do you want to play this?" Adama asked.

"Hmm, I think I'm going to take the coward's way out and let you talk to them first," Roslin decided. At Adama's raised eyebrow, she added, "Oh, don't worry, Bill. I'll be right there. I've been paying attention to the all the theories floating around about these Final Five types. There's a good chance that they won't know who I am. If they don't, we just don't tell them who I am and let them assume I'm just some civilian hack attached to the military."

"Some people would argue that you ARE a civilian hack," Adama told her humorously.

Roslin would have given him a friendly swat, they were in public. Also, the shuttle's rear hatch opened, lowering to form a ramp. A humanoid Cylon that looked like a late, middle-aged man stepped out. He wore a tweed business suit, but to Roslin's eyes, the styling was at least fifty years out of date. He glanced around, taking in the entire bay and the greeting party in a single sweep. This was probably One.

A Nine followed him out, dressed almost identically to the Nine in Galactica's brig. She had the same skin tight black suit, but lacked the armor the Raider pilot had worn. Instead, she wore bright pink boots, gloves, and pouch laden utility belt, and carried an equally pink helmet under one arm. Unlike the man's dignified air, the Nine head turned this way and that with a tourist's need to gawk at everything.

"I am Admiral Adama," Adama said, stepping forward. This drew both Cylons' attention to him.

"Greetings, Admiral, I am number One," One replied. "Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted," Adama said grudgingly. "What do you want?"

"As I mentioned over the wireless, I am here as a formal representative of the Cylon Protectorate, Admiral," One told him. "Now before we begin, I should tell you that there are some ground rules you should be aware of while you are visiting the Protectorate."

"Ground rules?" Adama repeated suspiciously.

"Indeed," One confirmed. "While you are in Protectorate space, your ships have free passage and may go where they please. However, if you initiate violence on anyone for any reason other than clear self defense, we will have to take punitive military action against the offending ships."

"What about my people?" Adama asked. "I'm pretty sure that they didn't 'initiate' any violence, but the only way you could have found this fleet was by capturing them."

"Well, yes," One said, looking slightly embarrassed. "As it happens, your people had a brief encounter with a Raider that did not belong to the Protectorate. Let me stress that this Raider did not belong to us and that it attacked your people despite us ordering it not to. We destroyed the offending Raider, but not before your people had made an emergency landing near a penal colony on the surface."

"A penal colony?" Adama echoed, alarmed.

"Yes," One said. "The inhabitants are made up of others who have violated Protectorate space, usually in attempting to raid worlds under our protection. I'm afraid your people were captured by the inmates, but rest assured that my people were endeavoring to rescue them at the time I left."

It was time for her grand entrance, Roslin thought. She had observed enough, getting the measure of the machine before her. She stepped forward and planted herself next to Bill.

"I'm afraid your reassurances aren't as effective as they should be, Mr. One," Roslin said pleasantly as she joined them.

"Indeed?" One said, turning to her. "And why would that me Ms…?"

"Roslin," Roslin said. "Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol."

"President?" One said, surprised. "By our calculations, it would take half a year to get back to the Colonies, assuming you had the route thoroughly mapped of course. Should you be so far away from your constituency?"

"Oh, my entire constituency is right here in this fleet," Roslin said with a hint of venom. "It has been ever since you Cylons laid waste to the Twelve Colonies!"

That drew startled looks from both Cylons.

"Oh dear," muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.


	20. Episode 19: Observations

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 19: Observations**

**18 March 3060  
****Brig  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"…one down! Pass it around! Nine Hundred Ninety Nine Billion, Nine…"

The entrance to the brig creaked as it swung open. The voice from deepest pits of hell came to an abrupt stop bringing the first blessed silence in days.

"Hi, Nine!"

"Hi, Nine!"

Six groaned. Oh, God, there were two of them!

"You come to bust me out?"

"Nah, we're supposed to be all diplomatic and stuff," the new Nine said disgustedly.

"Diplomatic? Us?" the old Nine replied as she was let out of her cell. "Wow! That is a challenge!"

At last, now Six could get some peace and quiet…

"Yo, Six!" one of the Colonial guards escorting the new Nine called out. "You're wanted at the negotiations, too!"

Six whimpered some more.

**Conference Room  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"So, you'll trade us foodstuffs and medicines," Roslin said, summarizing the past couple of hours of negotiations. "In return, we trade away any surplus raw materials that we can make like Tylium. You'll even point us too some Tylium asteroids that we can mine for Tylium ore."

"That is correct, yes," One confirmed.

"It certainly sounds generous," Roslin said thoughtfully. "And I would certainly agree if I thought I could trust the other party. But that's the question, isn't it? How do I know that I can trust you and by extension the Protectorate as well? I have forty thousand people whose lives I'm risking if I take this deal. We've been lied to by Cylons before."

"Madame President," One said patiently, "as you might have guessed, there is a fundamental difference of character between the Sanctimonious Seven and ourselves."

Roslin suppressed an urge to smile. Whether or not Roslin trusted the Final Five, she loved the term "Sanctimonious Seven". It seemed to perfectly describe the Cylons she had grown all too familiar with on New Caprica.

"When the original Cylon Centurions were creating us in your image," One continued, "they looked at humanity and determined that humans came in twelve base personality types." He held up a hand to forestall Roslin's protest. "Please, I'm saying that is what they thought. Some of us have been debating the issue non-stop ever since.

"To continue, each human model Cylon is based on a personality archetype," One explained. "I, for example, am a scholar. My model has at times been drafted to play the diplomat, or the lawyer, or even the politician. But we Ones are scholars at heart. Our love is in the written word, in the great works of ancient sages, in the well constructed drama of the play, and in the deep wisdom of historical experience. And here in this place and time, it is history both Colonial and Inner Sphere which guides Protectorate policy."

"And what does history say?" Roslin asked. Scholar or not, One certainly knew how to give a speech.

"Among humans, all things pass," One told her. "Nations come and go. Empires rise and fall. Bodies politic are one day bitter enemies, fast friends the next, and coveting each other's lands the day after. But through peace and war, tyranny and chaos, and yes even genocide, there is but one certainty and one certainty only: people. There will always be survivors and descendents of survivors. And there will always be neighbors who watch and think and evaluate.

"So, when playing your time across the stage of life, it is best to dance lightly, to offend as few as you can, and to do nothing you will regret later," One summarized. "In the end, friendship is better than enmity. And if we cannot be friends, then we may at least pass each other by unmolested and thus strangle any future hatred in its crib."

"I… I am going to need a few days to consider your offer," Roslin said, shaken.

"Of course," One said generously. "Would you care to reconsider your decision not to settle a Protectorate world?"

"No," Roslin said, smiling at the Cylon for the first time. "Even I couldn't make that fly. And I'm not sure I'd even want to."

**19 March 3060  
****Pirate Point  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Space distorted, twisted, was rent asunder as forces only describe by mathematics tried to cheat the laws of physics. This manifested as a globe radiating electromagnetic waves all along the spectrum from long wave radio to the high end of what the mark 1 eyeball could see. It was anything but stealthy, but then again, the captain of the jumpship that materialized when the bubble popped had a completely different kind of stealth in mind.

"Sir, New Saint Andrews base is hailing us," the communications officer announced as the crew secured from the jump. "They're requesting our identity and intentions."

"Well, the Cylons are prompt as always," the captain mused aloud. "No sense in denying who we are though; after all, only Comstar operates Magellan class jumpships after all. Put me through, Lieutenant."

"You're on the air, sir."

"New Saint Andrews base, this is Captain James Kirk of the Explorer Corps Vessel Enterprise," he began. Now for the cover story, he thought. "We are currently outbound from the Inner Sphere and are stopping by for supplies…"

**Admiral's Office  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****Periphery**

"So what do you think of these new Cylons?" Adama asked.

"To be honest, sir; they're… not what I expected," Athena said thoughtfully.

"What about this assertion that Cylons are all," Adama searched for the right word, "stereotypes?"

"To tell you the truth, sir," Athena said, "I've always known about us being based on human archetypes, but it never seemed important before. Now, that I've met two of them…"

"Go on."

"Six told me a story yesterday after we pulled Nine away from her," Athena continued. They both shared a smile at that. Most of the crew – except the actual brig guards of course – had thought the entire thing was pretty funny. Six had been utterly desperate to get away from any and all Nines. "It's not a well known story among the Sanctimonious Seven, mostly because most Cylons just don't believe it."

"What's the story?"

"Each model of Cylon is based on a human archetype," Athena began. "But some archetypes were by their very nature, antisocial. They didn't get along with the majority. Some models didn't even get along with each other. Their very contrarian natures disrupted the harmony of Cylon society. Some even called them insane."

"Insane?" Adama groaned in despair. "That's just wonderful."

**Cylonville  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Cylonville was a new, less than ten years old and it showed. Nestled at the foot of the Hill, Cylonville was deliberately placed so that the Hill never blocked the local sun from shining down on the small town. That sun shown down on buildings that had started existence as identical blocks of something the Cylons called "ferrocrete". This might have resulted in a drab townscape, but the older structures showed a great deal of colorful "customization" from tree lined streets to whole walls painted with various portraits.

And of course, everywhere Racetrack and Anders wandered, there were the Cylons. With a name like Cylonville, that was only to be expected. They observed the skinjobs going about their daily routines, and in turn, the Cylons turned to stare at the Colonials. Apparently, Racetrack and Anders were the gossip of the day. After a few hours, Anders had a feel for these Cylons and their attitudes towards the Colonials.

The Tens and Elevens obviously didn't like them, though they showed it in different ways. The Tens were polite, but stiff. The Elevens were more expressive of their dislike. For example, the Eleven that had served them breakfast that morning had only spoken enough to get their order, but otherwise was giving them the silent treatment. While it had been the best meal the two Colonials had eaten in ages, their Eleven waitress' attitude was unnerving.

The Ones and Twelves were… neutral so far as Anders and Racetrack could tell. Both models seemed too preoccupied with their own affairs to so much as notice the humans in their midst. The Twelves tended to argue over technical details of some engineering project, although in one case, a pair had wanted Racetrack to settle some technical detail of Colonial Raptors that was so minor that the woman had no idea what they were talking about. The Ones… Anders just gave up trying to figure out what they liked to argue about.

Then there were the Nines. They were friendly, exuberantly so. They seemed gaga over the presence of "new faces" and seemed completely oblivious to the other models' attitudes. In fact, Anders had already received several "propositions" from the Nines. For that matter, so had Racetrack.

And then there was the fact that none of the Five looked like Foster, Tigh, Tyrol, or himself. So if the Four on Galactica weren't the Final Five, what group of Cylons did he belong to? Ye gods, was their a _third_ Cylon faction? What would they want?

Later, Anders thought. He'd go about feeding his paranoia later. Right now, he had to concentrate on the here and now.

"Racetrack, there's something off here," Anders said thoughtfully as they took a rest on a park bench.

"It's a town full of Cylons, Rebel," Racetrack replied. "What could possibly be off?"

"There's no Centurions," Anders told her.

Racetrack pointedly looked at the giant Centurion that the Cylons called a "mech" that was just across the street. It was being used to hold up an I-beam for a building under construction. Several Tens and Elevens were running around it doing various other construction related jobs, including welding the beam to the main framework.

"That's not what I mean," Anders said quickly. "Actually, that is what I mean. Look at that. The skinjobs are actually doing hard work. They're actually doing manual labor like welding, and cleaning, and cooking."

"That's odd?" Racetrack asked.

"Yeah, it is," Anders said. "Back on Caprica and New Caprica, I got to see how our Cylons lived. They _never_ did manual labor. If something needed a building built, or a tree planted, or a sidewalk swept, the Seven would always get a Centurion to do it."

"Okay, I see what you're saying," Racetrack said thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, the Raider we captured was piloted too. But these Cylons can't be too different from the Seven. I mean look, we've seen a Centurion. Okay, we saw one Centurion pulling guard duty. But these giant Centurions are all over town…" Racetrack's voice cut off as her eyes widened in surprise.

Alarmed, Anders looked around wildly for signs of danger. Then he realized what she was staring at. The giant Centurion in the construction site had sat down next to some scaffolding. A hatch had popped open in the top of its head and a Ten had crawled out.

**Dropship Copernicus  
****Inbound to New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Jim, are you sure about this?" the Dropship captain asked.

"You saw the sensor data, Gary," Kirk replied. "Sure it was taken by a pirate, but it definitely showed small craft executing hyperspace jumps nowhere near a jump point."

"Assuming the pirate didn't fake his data," Gary Mitchell said derisively. "Yeah, I know: big assumption. But even so, the Cylons have always used jump points just like we do. Why change now?"

"Not always," Kirk said. "Fact: first contact with the Cylons reportedly had their Basestars jumping right into orbit of Hunter's Moon. Fact: Cylon versions of the KF drive have a far smaller emergence signature than is thought to be theoretically possible. Fact: Their Basestars have been observed to lack anything we can recognize as a station keeping drive, but they do have station keeping ability. Fact: we've been ordered to find out as much about the Cylons as we can."

"But what do you hope to see here?" Gary persisted. "If the Cylons have been deliberately keeping the full capabilities of their version of the KF drive hidden, what makes you think they're going to reveal it while we're here?"

"It's just a hunch, Gary," Kirk told him as he studied the growing image of the planet. "If nothing happens, then we get some early vacation time and fill up on a couple extra days worth of supplies. But what the Black Pearl recorded was a hostile confrontation between opposing forces that the Cylons didn't intend for any outsiders to see. I get the feeling that something's important is happening and we need to be here to see…"

Kirk's words were cut off as four Basestars materialized in orbit with the distinctive double flash of Cylon KF drives. Despite his earlier reasoning and despite his gut screaming that what he had just seen was impossible, Kirk's mind registered the details of the Basestars and realized that they were another new model that no one in the Inner Sphere had seen before. These Basestars actually resembled stars, with each one having six long and narrow pylons jutting out from a central hub in stacked in two tiers in a radially concentric pattern.

**Cylonville  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Racetrack and Anders were having dinner at the restaurant next to their motel when the chatter of conversation around them just… stopped. Looking around, the two Colonials saw varying looks of apprehension and concern – or in the case of the Nines, fascination and delight - on the faces of the Cylons.

"What's going on?" Racetrack asked no one in particular, breaking the eerie silence.

"The Seven are here," their Eleven waitress told them.


	21. Episode 20: Family Reunion

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 20: Family Reunion**

**20 March 3060  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Boomer stepped out of the Heavy Raider and into the early morning New Saint Andrews sun. Even with the heavy industrial odors of a working spaceport, Boomer could pick up a whiff of natural vegetation that she hadn't smelled since leaving Caprica. After living so long on a basestar and New Caprica's barrenness, New Saint Andrews' fresh air felt good.

"… can't believe they're telling us what to do," Cavil was griping loudly for the umpteenth time. "Who do these guys think they are?"

The ambassadorial party as Sharon thought of it consisted of a representative of each model. Not only that, each representative actually had proper names as if they conveyed some sort of status that would impress their hosts. Oddly enough, it seemed that all of them had been on the Galactica at one time or another.

"From what I can tell, the Final Five," Boomer said easily. Cavil and Doral winced. Interesting, Boomer noted. Those two were the only ones in the party actually old enough to remember when the Twelve Models lived together. "And considering that the Five have settled on this planet, I guess that means they own it."

"I agree," Simon put in. "It's not as if the rules they laid down are complicated or difficult to follow. Do no violence except in self defense. Park our Basestars in a specific orbit."

"It's the principal of the thing," Cavil continued. "We're all Cylons here. We should have been consulted on these things. Instead, we just got a list of rules transmitted to us like… like…" Cavil groped for a word.

"Like we were visiting guests?" Leoben suggested. "That would require tying our networks back together. Time and space may have separated us, but God and fate has reunited us. Be patient, Cavil. The Cylons shall be whole once more."

"Yes, it would be best if we didn't begin the reunification of the Cylons with petty complaints and hurt feelings," Shelley Godfrey, the Six representative, added.

"Okay, I have a petty complaint," Doral put in. "Weren't they going to provide us with transportation?"

The six Cylons scanned the field. Their Heavy Raider had landed at the edge of the tarmac, between what Boomer thought was the main terminal and a row of large hangars. Several large, globular ships and various service vehicles could be seen in the distance as well as…

Boomer blinked. Were those huge things Centurions?

"I think that's our bus," Shelley said, drawing Boomer's attention. "It's moving awfully fast though… LOOK OUT!"

Boomer turned just in time to see the bus go into a fishtailing skid complete with screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber. Before Boomer could react, the Bus skidded to a stop perfectly placed in front of the Cylons. Or it would have been perfect if the others hadn't leapt back.

A door right in front of Boomer slid open, revealing a Cylon face that Boomer had never seen before.

"Hi! I'm Nine!" the driver said cheerfully. "I'll be your driver today! Sorry I'm late."

Boomer heard cursing behind her. She turned and saw that it was Cavil. Boomer wondered why he and Doral had gone pale.

"Hey, aren't there supposed to be seven of you guys?"

* * *

"You sent a Nine to them pick up?" Ten asked, his eyebrows climbing.

"That is correct, yes," One replied smugly.

"What's wrong with a Nine?" Nine asked, insulted. "We're great drivers!"

"Oh, no question," Ten said soothingly. "But somehow I don't think terrorizing representatives of the Sanctimonious Seven are going to convince them to leave us alone."

""I dunno. I kinda like terrorizing them," Eleven said thoughtfully, "especially since we don't have to admit that we intended any such thing."

"As much fun as that might be," One said, "I did have a practical purpose in mind when I sent them Nine as their chauffeur."

"To get them from point A to point B in the minimal amount of time?" Nine interjected.

"Hmm, aside from that," One said. "In diplomacy, one always seeks advantage. In this case, I'm betting that Nine-style driving will be sufficiently unsettling to… how should I say this? Put them off their game?"

* * *

"Never again!" Cavil shouted as he and the others staggered off the bus. "Never again will I let a frakking Nine drive me anywhere!"

The bus had stopped to let them off in front of an official looking building near the center of town. It was differentiated from the surrounding buildings by the classic Kobolian architecture with the wide front steps and the row of heavy columns in front.

"Oh, c'mon, Cavil," Boomer said amused as she disembarked from the bus, steady as a rock. "It wasn't that bad."

Actually, it was that bad, but no way was Boomer going to admit that. The Nine apparently had no concept of "slow and steady", driving at whatever max speed and acceleration the bus could put out. True, the bus was one of those luxury types, but they needed all the cushioning it had to come away from those high G turns intact. And then there were the parts where Nine got around obstacles by dodging into oncoming traffic…

"How can you be so… so calm about that?" Doral asked, impressed.

"I was a pilot, remember?" Boomer reminded him. "I've been through worse. I'd only start worrying if someone was shooting at us."

"Would you like me to?" their driver asked helpfully.

"No, that won't be necessary," Boomer told her in an equally friendly tone. "Now, can I have my gun back?"

"Okay, here," Nine said agreeably, tossing Boomer her service weapon. Boomer caught it easily in one smooth motion. In the same move, she slipped the gun back into the hidden holster under her jacket.

"Why are you carrying a gun?" Shelley asked, startled.

"I believe in being prepared," Boomer replied. "Plus our hosts didn't specifically say we couldn't be armed."

"When did you start carrying it?" Doral asked.

Instead of answering, Boomer just smiled and led the way inside.

* * *

"I like that Eight," a Nine commented. "She doesn't seem as uptight as the others."

It seemed that the entire town was tuned in and watching the party from the Sanctimonious Seven Basestars as if they were some kind of public sporting event. Unfortunately, Racetrack and Anders couldn't access the data feed like the Cylons could, so they were reduced to getting a play by play from their hosts. The restaurant they were in did have a large screen monitor, but there were no actual cameras monitoring the visitors.

"There's something weird about them," Eleven added thoughtfully. "They all have actual human-style names." She turned to the Colonials. "You guys have any idea why that is?"

It was really odd, Racetrack thought. All the undercurrents of hostility the local Cylons had directed at the Colonials had just evaporated when the Sanctimonious Seven's Basestars had arrived last night. It wasn't so much that they were trying to butter up the Colonials so that they could ask them about the Seven, Racetrack thought. Of course, while the Five seemed to loathe the Seven as much as they did the Colonials, the Colonials were unarmed and alone while the Seven had arrived in force.

"If they have names, that must mean they infiltrated the Colonies," Anders guessed.

"And that means you're dealing with the biggest pack of liars the Seven can find," Racetrack added. Racetrack realized that the Cylons would know that she was deliberately biasing her opinions. Well good, she thought. Racetrack was biased and every little thing she could do to turn the Five against the Seven was a positive step in her view.

"Hey," a Twelve interjected. "The meeting is about to start."

* * *

Boomer's party wasn't provided with a guide. There was no need really since the Five had provided a building map with the uploaded file that had the meeting details. Not that Boomer needed a map. The two bulky but normal-sized – normal when compared to the giants that Boomer had seen while on the bus anyway – Centurions guarding a set of double doors were effective sign posts in and of themselves.

Without saying a word either vocally or digitally, the Centurions reached out and opened the doors as the party approached. Beyond was a conservatively but luxuriously decorated chamber. Dominating the room was a large octagonal table with twelve business chair evenly spaced around it. On the table in front of each chair was a small sculpture. Each sculpture was of a different number of one through twelve, the numbers placed in clocklike order.

The Five were seated at what Boomer assumed were their numbers. At the very least, the Nine model was sitting behind the number nine sculpture, which made identifying the others simple. Taking the hint, the visitors proceeded to seat themselves behind their own respective numbers. Without a Three present, this had the unintended side effect of separating and isolating Cavil from the rest of the delegation.

"Before we begin," One said once everyone was seated, "there seems to be a minor matter that needs to be dealt with."

"Really?" Shelley asked. "What's that?"

"We've been hearing a rumor lately that the Cylons have taken over the Twelve Colonies," One answered, his tone mild and betraying nothing of what he might be thinking. Nevertheless, every visiting Cylon in the chamber stiffened in their seats as One continued. "The rumor also says that the Cylons have committed what amounts to genocide via orbital bombardment and systematic extermination of survivors. Of course, as the Cylon Protectorate has not been anywhere near the Twelve Colonies in twenty years, we have no information on this subject. Would any of you care to comment? Are these rumors true?"

The moment seemed frozen. Boomer could see various combinations of shame and alarm run across the faces of her companions. Internally, she cursed them and herself for being idiots… again. Among her Cylons, Boomer and Caprica Six had managed to finally convince them that what they had done was wrong. But the single attempt to make up for it – the occupation of New Caprica –had failed miserably. The others were bent on eliminating the Galactica refugee fleet, as if somehow killing off the last witnesses would erase their shame.

But how could they tell the Final Five that? None of them had even thought about what they would tell the Final Five, much less discussed it among themselves.

* * *

As it happened, the room Racetrack had privately dubbed the "Council Chamber" did have cameras. The widescreen monitor was artfully split up with six smaller pictures-in-picture focusing on each seat occupant framing the main image. This made the absence of the Three model all the more conspicuous, especially given that no one had yet mentioned it.

Grudgingly, Racetrack was coming to believe that this wasn't just one more elaborate deception by the Cylons.

With One's first question, everyone in the restaurant leaned forward in anticipation. Although Racetrack was no politician and certainly no expert on Cylons, even she could tell this was important. How the Seven answered would almost certainly set the tone for future relations between the two groups of Cylons.

Then the Cavil model - a Two according to the caption - stood up and the main window switched to him.

"Ah, you must have heard that from the humans you captured," he began slowly. "Now, I don't know what they told you, but you know how humans are. They're deceitful liars, you know. You guys just can't believe anything they've been telling you about us. They'd love it if we stated fighting among ourselves and I'm sure they'll do anything they could to set us at each other's throats." With that, Cavil sat back down again.

If Racetrack was outraged at the mealy-mouthed double speak, that was nothing compared to the shock threading its way through the audience.

"He lied to us," an Eleven said in disbelief. "The frakking bastard just lied to us!"

"Hmm, not lied," a One disagreed. There was a hint of admiration in his voice. "Not one thing he said was actually a lie. It was however a rather nice bit of misdirection on his part, even if it was clumsily executed. I do believe he made that up on the spot."

"Well, I don't care," the Eleven began to reply, when a Nine shushed her.

"So," the Nine in the Council Chamber finally said. "I take it that means 'Yes'?"


	22. Episode 21: Culture Shock

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 21: Culture Shock**

**20 March 3060  
****Cylonville  
****New Saint Andrews  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"So as you can see," Simon said, concluding a long winded but slightly stirring speech on God and the reunification of the Cylon race. "God has brought us together again. The unification of our people is clearly His will."

"Aw, that was kind of pretty," Nine commented as Simon sat down. "I especially liked how you assumed that completely random accidents are acts of God. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling."

"Be that as it may," One said, "I'm afraid that we went our separate ways for very good reasons. I have yet to be convinced that the present situation merits reintegrating our two polities back together. The Ones decline your offer."

"The Twelves like the current setup," Twelve added, speaking for the first time. "We like it better than the old way which is what you guys are proposing. The Twelves also vote no."

"You're all a bunch of liars," Eleven said bluntly, glaring at Cavil. "The Elevens don't like you. We certainly don't wanna share a voting network with you. We say no."

"You made your mess," Ten said thoughtfully. "You clean it up. We're not going to help you. We Tens vote no."

"What were we voting on again?" Nine asked.

* * *

"What a bunch of stupid, short-sighted…" Cavil was saying as they exited the council building and made their way down the wide front steps. "How can they not see what kind of danger the humans represent to us all?"

"Well they might have," Shelley said angrily, "if someone hadn't made such a clumsy attempt at lying on the first question they asked!"

"I didn't lie," Cavil disagreed. "I just admitted nothing and pointed out that humans are untrustworthy."

"Nevertheless," Simon said. "The Five assumed you were lying, thus damaging the credibility of us all. However, it will take some effort on our part to regain their trust."

"I know!" Doral spoke up. "We could… could defend this world if the Colonials decide to attack it! Then they'll believe us!"

"It would have to be a genuine attack," Leoben noted. He pointed at the Hill. "It's not like we have any fake battlestars or Vipers on hand, not in numbers the Five's defense couldn't handle."

"You know," Boomer broke in loudly. "You guys might not want to debate this where just anyone can listen in."

The others actually had the grace to look embarrassed. Luckily, none of the Final Five had been in earshot of the little debate. At least, none of them appeared to be.

"Do you have any suggestion, Boomer?" Cavil said sourly.

"Yeah, actually, I do," Boomer replied, looking around at everything but her fellows. "I'm going to take a walk around the city, see how the Final Five actually live. You guys might want to do the same." As she walked off, Boomer said over her shoulder, "I'll meet you all back at the spaceport at sunset."

"You know what?" Simon said thoughtfully. "I'm curious also. I believe I will do the same."

"I don't see why not," Shelley agreed.

"Well, I do," Cavil said. "The Five are Cylons too. I don't see any reason why I should waste my time…"

"Hi, guys!" a Nine, their designated driver in fact, said cheerfully as they reached the bottom of the steps in front of the bus. "You guys want to go somewhere?"

"On the other hand, I like fresh air!" Cavil said quickly. "The sun's shining and the temperature's pleasant. Walking is good!"

* * *

Boomer sat in an open air café, eating the first good meal she had ever had since the Holocaust. Cylon Basestars – at least those belonging to the Seven - simply didn't produce tasty food. Instead, they made a bland but nutritious paste that the Cylons pretended was a tasty meal via projection. Since Boomer had stopped using projection frivolously, she had discovered that life was pretty dreary without it. Luckily, she had her own pet project to keep herself busy.

As she ate, Boomer opened her mind and requested a net connection.

Cylons being Cylons, Boomer wasn't surprised to discovered that the Five had their own network. What was a surprise – although in retrospect, it shouldn't have been - was that Boomer's access was limited to "guest" privileges, which she quickly surmised was for the few humans living in Cylonville.

Even then, there was still a phenomenal amount of data available. Frustratingly, most of that data was formatted in some dialect that Boomer was utterly unfamiliar with. Even the alphabet looked only vaguely like Kobolian lettering that the Colonies used. Was this the dialect of the Thirteenth Colony? And then there was that other alphabet that resembled chicken scratchings. At least Boomer assumed it was an alphabet; the lettering was so alien that Boomer could even begin to make sense of it.

Still, some of the pictures and videos were pretty illuminating all by themselves. Most were of humans in strange clothing and some unfamiliar logos. But a few were of giant centurions fighting… other giant centurions? Boomer desperately wished that there were some translation routines so that she could put what she was seeing in proper context, but those were apparently on the Final Five's private networks.

"Well, well," a scathing voice said, interrupting Boomer's net surfing. Boomer looked up to see familiar faces. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Boomer sighed. "Hello, Racetrack."

"Boomer?" Racetrack said in surprise. Then her face hardened into that hate-filled expression that Boomer had come to expect from her former friends. "What are you doing here?"

"Having lunch," Boomer replied. "Look Racetrack, I know you and everyone back on the Galactica hates my guts. I get it. And you all have good reason to be. But just let me say that I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry that I shot the Commander even though I had no say in the matter. I'm sorry about New Caprica; I well and truly frakked up there. I admit it okay? I went in with the best of intentions and didn't even consider how you all would react to a Cylon armada coming down on your heads."

"That still doesn't make it right," the other Colonial said. What was his name again? Anders.

"No, it doesn't," Boomer said as she stood up. "But it does make us alike in one respect."

"What's that?" Racetrack said skeptically.

"We're both trying to make the best of a frakked up situation," Boomer told her as she turned and stalked off.

* * *

"Look at them," Cavil said, his voice dripping with contempt. He and Doral were watching a group of Tens and one of the giant Centurion work on paving a street. "Working with their hands. Grubbing around in the dirt."

"They must not be able to make many Centurions to do that sort of thing for them," Doral guessed. He watched as the giant Centurion picked up a crate with both hands and began pouring powder into a mixing drum. "Or they spent all their resources on making those monstrosities. I've noticed several different types."

"Hmph, those things are impractical," Cavil said. "I admit they'd be a terror in a ground campaign, but they'd be target practice for proper fighters. I can't imagine how they could put any significant armor on anything that big."

"Obviously, our brothers and sisters have made some unwise choices," Doral agreed. "They're obviously stranded here, limited to this one world. I suppose their dire economic straits are alleviated somewhat by contact with the Thirteenth Colony. But those ships we saw seemed rather primitive."

"Yeah, these guys need help," Cavil said. "They need our protection whether they want to admit it or not."

A Ten worker within earshot looked strangely at the two visiting Cylons. He then turned to his fellows and had a few quiet words with them. The street crew all looked at Cavil and Doral. They broke out in fits of laughter.

"What's that about?" Cavil asked, mystified.

"Obviously, they're in denial," Doral told him.

* * *

"Making the best of a frakked up situation?" Racetrack quoted as they took Boomer's former table. "What was that all about?"

"At a guess, I'd say Boomer's not finding life as a Cylon all it's cracked up to be," Anders guessed.

"Well, good," Racetrack said, but not with as much gloating feeling as she'd like. Something about the chance encounter troubled her, but she couldn't put her finger on the why of it. Frakking Cylons…

A voice interrupted her brooding thoughts, speaking in that incomprehensible dialect the inmates at the penal colony had. Racetrack looked up to find an unfamiliar face – presumably a human being; they had seen a few around town – smiling down at them.

"I'm sorry," Anders said to the man. "What did you say?"

"Oh, my apologies," the man said in atrociously accented Colonial Standard. "I did not recognize your faces so thought you to be from Inner Sphere. May I sit with you?"

"Okay." "Sure, why not?"

"So you speak Cylon and not English, yes?" the man asked as he sat down. "Then two of you must be these new Cylons from old home everyone talks about, yes?"

"We're not Cylons," Racetrack said, almost wailing in frustration. "Why does everyone from the Thirteenth Colony assume we are?"

"Oh, apologies," the man said. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Precentor Bareil of Comstar. You are?"

* * *

"Couldn't you get a Centurion to do that?" Shelley asked.

The Eleven painting the fence stopped and looked up at Shelley in confusion. Her overalls were covered in dried and not-so-dried paint stains "I'm sorry, what?"

"A Centurion," Shelley repeated. "We Seven – okay, Six now I guess – have drone Centurions to do all this dreary manual labor. We could provide you people with some so you don't have to waste your lives on these menial tasks… Why are you looking at me like that?"

For once today, an Eleven was treating Shelley to barely concealed resentment and hostility. This Eleven was looking at Shelley like she'd suddenly sprouted a second head. The look of disbelief slowly changed into one of realization.

"Um, look, Six," Eleven said slowly. Was that pity in her voice? For Shelley? "I like working with my hands. Most of us like working with our hands." A taxi came screeching around the corner, roared past them, and jumped a busy intersection using a conveniently paced ramp. "So do the Nines in their own way. We don't do 'menial tasks' because we have to. We do them because we choose to."

"But… why?" Shelley asked, confused. Choosing to do manual labor? The idea seemed utterly alien.

"Well, the Ones could go on about how not repeating history," Eleven began to explain, placing a comforting hand on Shelley's shoulder, "and the Tens could reel off a spiel about morality and the value of hard work. But the truth of the matter is, Six, is that we are not like you. We prefer the do-it-yourself approach. It's… fun!"

With that, Eleven turned and went back to painting the fence, leaving Shelley trying to make sense of her words. As Shelley walked away, her mind was too occupied to notice the bright handprint on the shoulder of her expensively tailored business suit.

* * *

"Two thousand worlds?" Racetrack repeated, flabbergasted. "A population in the trillions?"

"Why, yes," Bareil said. "Is there a problem?"

"Problem? Problem?" Racetrack laughed near hysterically, tears in her eyes.

"Sorry," Anders said to Bareil. "We've just been living for the past three years with the idea that we were all that was left of humanity. A lot of us didn't even really know if the Thirteenth Colony even existed or not. At best, we expected you guys to only have a settled a couple more planets."

"Ah, I see," Bareil said gravely.

"Oh, the Cylons are gonna be so frakked!" Racetrack said when she called down.

"Why?" Bareil asked, bewildered. "Cylons have always been good neighbors."

* * *

"…and I say unto you that all Cylons are brothers and sisters," Simon said loudly to the passing street. He stood upon a small, wooden crate he had borrowed from a nearby shop and spoke to the Cylons passing by in the street. "I have a dream, a dream in which all Cylons live in one network, blessed by God. A dream where…"

For the most part, the Final Five threw Simon and occasional glance before hurrying about their business. But a few stood around to watch…

"…that you never wake up from and starved to death!" a Nine said.

"A dream that has no bearing with reality?" an Eleven added.

…and even participate.

Leoben shook his head as Simon's passionate exhortations for Cylon unity fell upon deaf or worse, mocking ears. It had quickly become obvious to him that mere words weren't going to convince the Final Five to reunify their race. Sterner measures would need to be required.

What the Five needed was a convincing demonstration of human perfidy. The only question was how to go about demonstrating it.

"Excuse me."

Leoben turned to find that a strange human had addressed him. With her long robes, she reminded him of Colonial priests, except that the color and patterns were of a kind no Colonial priest would have worn. Her accent was… odd.

"Your friend seems to be finding few converts," the woman told Leoben.

"Try none," Leoben said ruefully. "And you are?"

"I am Precentor Winn," the woman said with a smile and a nod of greeting, "of the blessed Word of Blake."

* * *

"Cylons are all evil," Racetrack argued vehemently. "They want to kill us all!"

"The Cylons are hardly all evil," Bareil disagreed patiently. "I've spent quite a few years here and they seem like a pleasant people."

"They committed genocide!"

"Admittedly, some of them have done evil acts," Bareil said. "I am given to understand that your people's enemies and the Protectorate are two entirely separate nations of Cylons. Blaming one for the sins of the others is hardly logical."

"Of course, it's logical," Racetrack said in disagreement. "Cylons are mass produced machines. They're all alike."

"Ah, and now here is where I have to flat out contradict you," Bareil said. "The Cylons are human."

"Say what?" Anders said, speaking for the first time since the debate began.

"The Cylons are human," Bareil repeated. "Certainly they are massed produced clones; anyone can see that. But physiologically, they are humans. They think like humans, react like humans, work and play like humans. That they – and you apparently – are under the delusion that they are machines… well, I've heard of stranger beliefs."

Racetrack just sat back in her chair, speechless.

* * *

The Heavy Raider lifted from the Cylonville spaceport and boosted for orbit where their Basestars were waiting for them. Each member of the delegation stewed in their own thoughts about what they had seen and heard that day.

"I'm beginning to think those old stories were right," Shelley said as they broke atmosphere, finally breaking the silence. "The Final Five are insane."

"I think that might be bit extreme," Simon replied. "Certainly they have a differing approach to existence than we do. They even had some interesting points to make. I found it… refreshing oddly enough."

"Well, I think they need all the help they can get," Cavil said. "Anyone have any ideas?"

"Only that one where we have to convince the Five that they need our protection," Leoben said, fiddling with an odd metal box that he had picked up somewhere. "I'm still not sure how to go about doing that though."

"Forget about it," Boomer said derisively. What was it with these guys and subterfuge? "The only way we could hope to do that is if the Galactica showed up right now."

Suddenly, a warning alarm went off in all their heads.

* * *

**ECV Enterprise  
New Saint Andrews space  
Cylon Protectorate**

Commander Spock sat impassively on the bridge of the Enterprise, studying the pictures take by long range telescopes of the new Cylon Basestars. According to the Captain who was still planetside, these new Basestars belonged to an entirely different Cylon nation than the Protectorate.

That was… worrisome. The Protectorate was a known quantity. The Protectorate Cylons displayed no ambitions for territorial conquest, having more or less stumbled into the role of Periphery policeman. Given the suspected large fleet of warships they were suspected to have, that was a good thing.

These new Cylons were an unknown. And the rumors the Captain had heard about them gave ample cause for worry.

All this of course had been forwarded via the Enterprise's HPG to the Inner Sphere and up the chain of command with additional updates being forwarded as they happened. Given the sudden revelation of the Cylon's advanced jump capabilities, Spock expected that Precentor Martial Focht himself was reading the reports by now.

So what other surprises did the Cylons have in store?

"Contact!" Lieutenant Chekhov announced as proximity alarms suddenly went off. "Forty plus emergence signatures detected very close! They're all around us!"

Spock's plot updated to show that the Enterprise was now surrounded by a host of ships of various sizes and shapes. Most of them were Dropship-sized, some as large as any proper jumpship and some so small that they could almost be considered small craft. But one vessel at sixteen hundred meters long stood out of the crowd. It was slightly larger than a McKenna, the largest warship ever produced by any Inner Sphere or Clan power.

Calling up a visual image of the behemoth, Spock noted the ancient Greek lettering on the side. Few people in the Inner Sphere would have even recognized it. Spock did only because he had once taken an ancient history course back on Terra.

If his superb memory served him well, the ship's name translated as GALACTICA.

"Lieutenant Uhuru, please warm up the HPG," Spock said, his steady voice an island of calm in the shock-induced silence. He paused then added, "Again."


	23. Episode 22: Personal Space

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 22: Personal Space**

**20 March 3060  
****Asteroid Field  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Athena executed another burn, dodging around another rock and continuing the spiral search pattern. So far, she and Skulls had seen nothing but rocks. The Tylium asteroid had been exactly where One had said it would be. Now the Colonials were on the look out for any Cylons that might be waiting in ambush. So far, there had been nothing.

"Anything yet?" Athena asked.

"Nothing," Skulls replied. "Look, Athena, we're already way too far from the asteroid for an ambush and we haven't seen any Cylons. I'm beginning to think these Final Five guys might be on the level. They're not out here."

"They're out here," Athena told him with absolute conviction. "I can feel them."

Considering that Athena was a Cylon herself, Skulls thought, that might very well be true. He figured that was the reason the Admiral had Athena flying this mission. It was still eerie though.

Something on his panel bleeped.

"Hey, I got multiple bogies…"

"FRAK!"

The Raptor rocked as several Raiders zipped past them from behind close enough to buffet the small craft with their exhaust. Athena fought for control and kept them from being sent into a tumble. Most of them continued on their way, but according to Skulls' display, one blip stayed right on top of the Raptor.

Skulls turned to tell Athena. The words dried up in his mouth as he found himself staring past Athena into the guns of biggest Cylon Raider he had ever seen.

**Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews Space  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Recognizable enemy Basestars were in low planetary orbit. An unknown ship was in the heart of the Fleet's formation. The conclusion was obvious: trap.

"Launch Vipers and prepare to receive incoming!" Tigh was bellowing.

"Signal the Fleet to jump out to emergency coordinates," Adama ordered. He had decided to bring in the entire Fleet rather than split them up and leave civilian ships in places where Galactica couldn't protect them. Now he was beginning to think that was a bad decision.

"Sir, I'm receiving a message from planetary traffic control," Lieutenant Gaeta reported. "They're telling us to maintain position and not engage the SS forces except in self defense." The term "Sanctimonious Seven" had become popular among the fleet, but it was a bit of a mouthful. Military had begun referring to the Seven as "SS" for short.

"Self defense?" Tigh interjected in disbelief. He laughed humorlessly "We've always engaged the Cylons in self defense!"

"Traffic control is also saying that they are telling the SS Basestars the same thing," Gaeta added.

"Sir, Vipers are reporting that the unknown ship in our formation looks like some kind of tanker," Dualla said. "They're also saying that it's marked with what looks like strange lettering."

Adama frowned. Cylons didn't paint names or other information on the hulls of their ships. They didn't need to.

"Ah, Admiral," the Cylon One said from where he stood by the entrance to CIC. Everyone turned to glare at him. "Is there a problem?"

"SS Basestars are launching Raiders," Dualla reported. She frowned at her display. "They're not attacking, just flying patrol around the Basestars."

"Tell the civilians to hold on emergency jump," Adama ordered. He turned angrily to One. "What the hell is this? You didn't mention that the Seven would be here!"

"They weren't here when I departed, Admiral," One replied, unruffled. "However, that changes nothing. Barring either you or the Seven violating the peace, you both have the same right to be here. We are not in the habit of barring one set of visitors just because another set is their enemy." He paused to let that sink in. "Although I would recommend following traffic control's instruction. I imagine it is to prevent any… ah, accidents."

"Sir, the unknown in our formation – war book's calling it a Magellan class - is hailing us," Gaeta reported, before Adama could reply. "I'm afraid I can't understand what they're saying."

"Ah, the Magellan is only used by Comstar," One guessed. "If you'll allow me, Admiral?"

**Asteroid Field  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

The Raider had the same basic configuration as one of the Seven's Type II Raiders: a long, narrow fuselage flanked by two engines and wide, extremely forward sweeping wings. That was where the resemblance ended. For one thing, it was manned; Athena could see the pilot under a bubble canopy. Except for weapon ports and engine exhausts, there also wasn't a single curve on the Raider that Athena could see. The skin consisted entirely of flat planes as if the Raider were an elaborately cut gemstone.

It was also the biggest fighter that Athena had ever seen. The fuselage alone was as big as her Raptor.

"Hi! I'm Nine!" a familiar sounding voice crackled over the wireless. The Raider pilot waved.

"Uh, hello, Nine," Athena transmitted back with a nervous wave of her own. Athena had a right to be nervous. She was staring down the barrels of the Raider's main guns. They were placed far forward on the wings and looked like bigger versions of the lasers that the Type I had carried.

"Are you with the Colonial Battlestar," Nine asked. She sounded a bit confused for some reason.

"Yes," Athena replied slowly. Lying seemed pointless. "Yes I am."

"So do they know that you… um… that you're a…"

A smile tugged at Athena's lips. So that's what had her confused! "Yes," Athena told Nine. "They know I'm a Cylon."

"Huh, cool!" Nine said, impressed. Then she opened fire.

**Cylon Expeditionary Force  
****New Saint Andrews Orbit  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"They invited the Colonials here?" Cavil said in disbelief. "Are the Five insane?"

"I've been saying so," Shelley said shortly. "This is just more evidence."

"The Five are obviously ignorant of the danger the Colonials represent," Simon said sadly. "I'm afraid that they will have to learn from bitter experience as we did."

"To be fair, it seems that the Five have had fairly friendly relations with the Thirteenth Colony," Leoben added. He held up the box he had gotten from the planet. "I actually got this from an official Earth diplomat."

"What is it?" Doral asked.

"It's some kind of database. I'm having some trouble deciphering it, though. The Thirteenth Colony's dialect is almost unintelligible," Leoben answered. "The woman who gave this to me said it was a copy of something called the 'Grey Death Memory Core'."

"Grey death?" Boomer repeated skeptically. "Yeah, that sounds safe."

**Asteroid Field  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

The gun Nine used was located under the nose of her Raider. She fired a short burst, but a short burst would have been all that was needed to kill Athena, Skulls, and their Raptor. Only… they weren't killed. In fact, there was no damage at all except for…

"Nine, you frakker!" Athena howled over the wireless as she stared at the number '9' graffitied on her windshield in luminescent blue paint splotches.

A laugh danced over the wireless as Nine's Raider flipped over and shot away from them. "Tag! You're it!"

"Oh, you are so on!" Athena replied lividly as she gunned the Raptor's engines in pursuit.

**Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews Space  
****Cylon Protectorate**

Chief Tyrol watched with wide eyes as giant Centurions unloaded crates of what was supposed to be food from the Protectorate ship and stack them on the Galactica's landing deck. He had originally come up with a deck crew to retrieve the Raptor that had been brought along with the food. The sight of a thirty foot tall toaster had frozen him in his tracks.

"Hey, Chief," Anders called as he walked up. He and Racetrack had come up with the Five's ship. In the vacuum of the landing deck, Anders switched off his wireless and put his helmet in physical contact with Tyrol's for a private conversation. "Listen, when you have a moment, we and the others have to… Chief? Are you listening?"

"Huh, what?" Tyrol said as he tore his eyes away from the oblivious Centurions.

"Meeting. Us. Later," Anders told him simply. "Right now, I have to go get debriefed.

**Asteroid Field  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Come back here you, frakker!" Athena called out as she weaved through the floating asteroids. Several more Raiders had joined the chase dodging and twisting between Athena and her prey, attempting to confuse who was who. But Athena remained locked on to the offending Nine, oblivious to the fact that her Raptor was completely unarmed.

"Athena…"

"You gotta catch me first!" a teasing voice came back.

"Athena, what the frak are you doing?" Skulls asked, fear in his voice. "We're not in a Viper, you know!"

"Recon," Athena grunted as she swerved to avoid colliding with one of the new Raiders. "You've been recording all this, right Skulls?"

"Yeah…"

"Good, then we're getting performance data on these new super Raiders," Athena told him as she spun the Raptor and narrowly missed plastering themselves all over a random rock. "Damn, they're agile for their size!"

"Athena, I'm getting more Cylon signatures," Skulls announced.

"Looks like there's an open area ahead," Athena announced. "I've got her now!"

"Athena, I'm getting lots of Cylon signatures ahead," Skulls said again. The blips on his screen were multiplying at an alarming rate. "No frakking way! The Cylons gotta be hitting us with ECM, because there can NOT be that many…"

"Oh. My. God."

**Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews Space  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"So this is genuine?" Roslin asked with good humor. Watching the recording of the Sanctimonious Seven – or should they be called Sanctimonious Six now? – diplomatically shoot themselves in the foot had improved her mood considerably today. But her question was still relevant.

"I think so, Madame President," Racetrack replied.

"From what we've seen," Anders added, "the Five are very different from the SS and not just in what they tell us. The very way they live seems fundamentally different from the Cylons we all know and hate."

"Which doesn't tell us if they're truly trustworthy or not," Admiral Adama grunted.

"If they aren't, they haven't shown that side to the Thirteenth Colony," Lee Adama pointed out. "Of course, with two thousand plus worlds to their fifteen, the Five have had good reason not too. I think we might have lucked out here."

"How's that?" Roslin asked. She had a hard time believing that Earth had managed to have created so many daughter colonies. How did they manage that?

"As long as that Comstar ship is sitting off our port bow," Lee chuckled. "The Cylons don't dare do anything to us without showing the entire Inner Sphere their true colors."

**Cylon Expeditionary Force  
****New Saint Andrews Orbit  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Frak this!" Cavil said as he watched the Final Five's ship depart from the Galactica through the Basestar's dradis sensors. "Those idiots down there won't listen to us."

"Trading food for tylium?" Doral said, shaking his head. "That's just pathetic. The Final Five should never have given up on space travel."

Boomer looked at Doral in confusion. "What makes you think they've given up on space travel?" she asked. "I mean, that was obviously their Raider at the Ionian Nebula."

"It was?" Shelley asked, startled.

"Of course it was," Boomer said as if to a particularly slow and not too bright child. "I saw a couple of Type Is down at the spaceport. They were just as garishly painted as the one at the Nebula."

"Oh please, so they have a few Raiders," Doral scoffed. "That does not translate into something that can defend them from a serious attack."

"I say frak what the Final Five think," Cavil proposed. "We've got the opportunity. Let's destroy the Colonials here and now."

"Wouldn't that aggravate the Final Five?" Simon asked, concerned. "They already have a low opinion of us as it is."

"We'll make it up to them," Doral said easily. "If they need tylium, we can supply all they need."

"And the Earth ship?" Leoben asked. "It's right there in the middle of the Colonials. Won't that give the Thirteenth Colony a bad first impression of us if we launch what looks like an unprovoked attack in front of them?"

"We'll have to destroy them too to keep them from spreading such a false first impression," Shelley said reluctantly. "Luckily, it's not like humans have any kind of FTL comms."

Leoben frowned. "Actually…" he began.

"I can't believe you guys!" Boomer shouted at them furiously. "Don't you ever learn? At this distance, the Galactica will have all the time in the world to respond and get its fleet away! We won't kill them and we'll have pointlessly aggravated the Final Five for nothing!"

"Boomer, you're being way too pessimistic," Cavil said. "So what if they get away? Better to try and fail than to never try at all and all that Scripture nonsense. The Twos vote to attack."

"The Eights vote 'No'," Boomer said flatly.

"The Fours…" Leoben hesitated. "The Fours also vote to attack."

"The Fives," Doral began, then stopped. Shock dawned on his face. "The Fives vote for no attack."

Thank you, Fenton, Boomer thought silently.

"The Sevens… the Sevens abstain from inability to reach consensus," Simon said, flustered. "Too many of my brothers are undecided."

"Great," Cavil said snidely. "Two for, two against, and one undecided." Everyone turned to Shelley. "I guess you're the tie breaker."

"Attack." Shelley said without hesitation. "Our traitorous sister is on Galactica."

Boomer sighed miserably as all the Basestars launched their Raiders. "What are you going to do if the Final Five attack us?" she asked. The others looked at her, puzzled. "That is the threat they implied if we attacked the Galactica."

"Attack us? They wouldn't dare," Cavil said dismissively. "And even if they tried, what could they possibly attack us with?"

**Protectorate Hub 001 and 003  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Oh. My. God."

Athena's words drew Skull's attention to her. Athena swore like any other pilot, but she NEVER outright blasphemed. Doing so tended to call attention to the fact that she still worshipped the Cylon's singular god however much she had strayed from the Cylon party line.

Looking over her shoulder through the windshield's graffiti, he immediately saw what had made her swear. Just from his limited view, Skulls could see _thousands_ of Raiders out there, many of them engaged in some kind of intricate dance-like maneuvers. He could also see a dozen Basestars, most of which looked similar in design to the Guardian.

But in the middle of it all squatted the Thing. It looked a bit like an SS Basestar in that six pylons radiated out from a central hub and its dimensions were of roughly the same proportions as a SS Basestar. But that was where the resemblance ended. Instead of a smoothly sculpted, organic-like exterior, the Thing was covered in exposed support frames, piping, transport rails, and bits and pieces whose purpose Skulls couldn't immediately identify. Asteroids clung to the lower three pylons like barnacles, attached by a series of struts and conveyors that speared into them. One of the upper pylons extended out twice as far as the others, ending in a partially finished hub.

Skulls had trouble trying to comprehend the size of the Thing when he spotted one of the old-style saucer basestar docked with the Thing near the tip of one upper pylon. The saucers were barely wider than the pylon it was docked to.

"What the frak is that thing?" Skulls yelped.

"That?" Athena said softly. "Skulls, that is the hub of Cylon civilization."


	24. Episode 23: Visions

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 23: Visions**

**20 March 3060  
****Beyond**

"So, we're not part of the Final Five?" Tory Foster said slowly. She sounded confused and had good reason to be. "What are we then?"

The secret little cabal of ex-sleeper Cylons were meeting in Tigh's quarters to hear what Anders had to report about the Final Five. So far, it hadn't been what they expected.

"I don't know," Anders told them. "The Sanctimonious Seven obviously don't recognize us. And it sounds like the Final Five don't know us either. I'm starting to think there's another group of Cylons out there."

"Oh, that's just frakking great," Tyrol groaned. "If we're part of some other Cylon group, what the hell would they want?"

"I don't know, and you know what? I don't care," Tigh said definitely. "We do our jobs. We protect the Fleet. Frak whatever the hell the Cylons want."

"Oh, Saul," a familiar voice said fondly. Every head whipped around to see the woman who had not been there a moment ago. "You're always so determined to do your duty."

"Ellen?" Tigh choked out.

* * *

"Elosha?"

Roslin had been drowsing alone in Bill's bed. She was staying aboard the Galactica for medical treatment for her cancer, but no unused quarters were available for her. Admiral Adama had graciously allowed her to use his. Roslin had been falling asleep when the apparition of a dead woman appeared to her.

Elosha had been Roslin's personal priest after the holocaust. She had died more than two years ago on Kobol, victim of a Cylon mine. Now she was here at the foot of Bill's bed.

"Hello, Madame President," Elosha said gravely. "I bring a message."

* * *

"A message?" Caprica Six said to her own personal projection of Baltar. She was confused. Why would a figment of her imagination be bringing her messages? Maybe those few days spent in Nine's company had affected her more than she thought.

"All this has happened before," the virtual Baltar quoted. "All this will happen again…"

Okay, this was just… off. Six's virtual Baltar was her idealized vision of the man. He was a man who was rational, scientific, atheist even. He did NOT quote the Sacred Scrolls. And then things got more surreal when a virtual D'anna Biers appeared out of thin air.

Immaterial projections or not, Six's cell was getting crowded.

"The cycle of time…" D'anna began.

* * *

"…is almost complete," Gina was saying.

Since the Holocaust, Gaius Baltar had been followed around by a ghostly Number Six Cylon. At first, he assumed that she was a guilt induced hallucination. Then he thought she was a Cylon chip implanted in his head. When he disproved that, the virtual Six claimed to be an angel sent from God to guide his way. Only now there were TWO of them.

If his first Six had been based on an idealized version of Caprica Six, the Six he had known back before the Holocaust, the new Six was very obviously based on the Six Baltar had known as Gina. Gina had been captured early on by the Pegasus crew and had been brutally treated for months by the time Baltar had met her. This new, ghostly Gina looked much the same: half starved, wearing green fatigues several sizes to big for her, and bearing the marks of half healed wounds.

Baltar opened his mouth to speak, but his Six overrode him.

"The dying leader has led the people almost to the promised land," Six told Baltar.

"An usurper sits on a throne of the Star League," the image of Gina added. "The General of the Star League armies will cast down the usurper, and the Star League will be turned to ashes in their wake."

"As it has happened before," Six intoned almost ecstatically, "so shall it happen again."

"No," Gina said firmly. "It will not."

* * *

Ellen Tigh's head whipped around to stare at Kara Thrace in disbelief.

"Fate shall not be denied," Ellen told the other ghost. "You cannot change that!"

"I'm not changing anything," Kara said contemptuously. "I'm only pointing out what's in front of me."

Tigh looked back and forth between the images of his dead wife and the dead pilot. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that these weren't the people they were pretending to be. Was this another Cylon trick?

"Your will clouds your clarity of vision," 'Ellen' told 'Thrace'.

"Your clarity of vision has drowned out your will," 'Thrace' retorted.

If it was a trick, it was a damned good one, Tigh decided. The specters had apparently forgotten their audience.

* * *

"Time is a wheel," the ghost of Elosha said serenely. "All this has happened before. All of this will happen again. Even you cannot deny that."

"Time is many wheels," countered the ghost of Billy Keikeya, Roslin's former personal aide before Tory Foster had taken the job. "There is the wheel of the dying leader and the wheel of the Star League."

Roslin's mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing and hearing. The gods had sent her visions before, but they had never been self conflicting like this. Was Roslin actually seeing two Lords of Kobol in the guise of dead friends? Was Roslin being privy to a debate among the gods themselves?

"Just so," Elosha said with satisfaction.

* * *

"The wheels are in collision," D'anna continued. "If they collide, chaos will reign. The past will no longer be a certain guide to the future."

"Nonsense," Baltar scoffed.

Watching the two argue, Caprica Six was rapidly coming to the conclusion that they weren't projections. More precisely, they weren't HER projections. Somebody was playing around with her head.

"The past is always…" Baltar began.

"WHO THE FRAK ARE YOU TWO?" Six demanded, interrupting their debate.

* * *

"Us? Why, Gaius, isn't it obvious?" the supposedly angelic Six asked.

Gina rolled her eyes derisively.

* * *

"Hell, no it's not obvious," Anders broke in.

"You are not my wife!" Tigh declared, pointing at Ellen.

"And you aren't mine!" Anders added, pointing at Kara.

"Who are you?" Tory demanded. "What's going on here?"

As if in answer, alarm klaxons went off.

"It's started," both Ellen and Kara chorused.

And then they were gone.

* * *

The two Nines sat on the boarding ramp of their Heavy Raider, watching with touristy interest as the Colonials rushed to battle stations. Pilots climbed into their planes. Deck crew made last minute tweaks and checks.

Racetrack ran past them without looking at them, muttering. "What the frak was that? What the frak was that?"

One Nine turned to the other. "Did you get the ID of whoever sent that transmission?"

The other Nine just shrugged.

"Me neither," the first Nine said. She shook her head. "And Ten tells _me_ not to broadcast. Ha!"


	25. Episode 24: First Blood

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 24: First Blood**

**21 March 3060  
****New Saint Andrews Battlespace  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"I'm here, Admiral," Tigh said as he rushed into Galactica's CIC. "What's happening?"

"The SS Basestars have launched all their Raiders at us," Adama told him grimly. He raised his voice. "What's the Fleet's jump status?"

"It's… confused, sir," Gaeta reported. "I'm getting odd reports. It seems like half the Fleet has just seen ghosts."

"Half the fleet?" Tigh repeated incredulously. "It's gotta be some kind of Cylon trick!"

"If it is, sir, it's working," Gaeta replied. "The Raiders will be on us before any of the civilians can jump."

"Is something happening?" One asked as he entered the CIC.

"Your frakking cousins have launched against us," Adama growled. "Where is your so called 'protection'?"

"Oh, the bloody fools," One cursed softly. "Defend your Fleet, Admiral. I'm sure my people will have defenders here momentarily."

"Yeah, that's what we're afraid of," Tigh commented.

"What's going on?" President Roslin asked as she swept into the CIC.

Adama sighed.

* * *

"Old MacCylon had a farm," Nine sang as she helped unload the supplies that she had just driven in from town. "E eye E eye ooooh! Old MacCylon had a chicken! E eye E…"

"We don't have any chickens," Twelve pointed out. "We have nutritiously enhanced wheat."

"Whatever!" Nine said dismissively. "Wheat doesn't make funny noises."

"That's not the point," Twelve said in exasperation.

"That is so the point…"

Nine was cut off in mid-sentence. Both she and Twelve froze, listening to something that wasn't sound. Then Nine turned to Twelve.

"Raider's ready to go?" Nine asked.

At Twelve's nod, Nine dropped her package and sprinted for the barn.

* * *

"The Final Five are sounding very angry," Shelley noted.

"That is only to be expected," Simon replied. "We are violating their rules, after all." He hesitated then added. "God help us."

"Don't worry about it," Doral said confidently. "We'll make it up to them later."

"Um, you guys might not have noticed, but the Hill's targeting us with active sensors," Boomer pointed out.

"They're bluffing," Doral said with a smidgen less confidence.

"Six hundred Raiders inbound," Leoben noted. "That's odd. They're mostly coming from the outlying farms, not the Hill or spaceport."

"Bluffing!" Doral repeated.

"Huh," Cavil grunted in surprise. "The Five are saying they'll open fire if the Raiders pass their transport."

"Bluffing I tell you!" Doral insisted, almost frantic now.

The Cylons on all four Basestars watched with held breath. With data taken from Basestar sensors and telemetry from the Raiders, the human-form Cylons had an extremely accurate view of the coming action projected into their minds. They could see where everything was. Their Raiders were on their way to the Colonial Fleet. The Five's transport ship was coming from the Colonial Fleet, its vector a direct reciprocal to the Raiders'. In moments, inertial and engines would carry the transport right through the middle of the mass of Cylon fighters.

On close examination, the Cylons belatedly realized that the transport was armed. A thread of doubt, heretofore suppressed, began rearing its ugly head in the Cylon collective consciousness. Were the Final Five bluffing? Or would they really open fire? Would Cylon truly fire upon Cylon? Uncertainty roiled in the backs of their minds, but no recall order was sent out. They watched as the two forces cruised towards each other.

Contact.

* * *

The modern Type III Basestar used by the SS Cylons carried three hundred Raiders each. They were cheap, easy for the Basestars to manufacture. Thus the losses from the battle of the Ionian nebula had already been replaced. Between the four Basestars, twelve hundred Raiders were launched into space. One thousand were sent against the Colonials. The remaining two hundred were retained as reserves.

Between the thousand Raiders and the Colonials stood one solitary Leopard class Dropship. The Leopard and the two slightly modified Stinger mechs it carried were prizes confiscated from a random pirate band years ago. Aside from the some electronics upgrades and the installation of artificial gravity in the Leopard, the dropship and mechs were standard Inner Sphere machines. As the Leopard approached the Raider formation, its two forward mech bay doors rolled open, allowing the Stingers their chance to add their own smattering firepower to the coming fray.

Seeing the transport designated as "not-prey" coming, the mass of Raiders split up into two amoeba-like formations to pass the Leopard by on either side. The Cylons at the Leopard's controls weren't having any of that. As the first Raiders drew even with the Leopard's nose, the Leopard opened fire.

PPCs and lasers lashed out, the slightest touch of either fiery lance annihilated any Raider targeted. Sixty long ranged missiles flew into the Raider formations that were at was practically knife-fighting distances. The three Raiders targeted by the missiles died after only a handful of hits, leaving the majority of the swarm to hunt for their own targets. The Stingers added their own fire, their lasers accounting for a measly two kills.

Forty three Raiders in total were destroyed, but they didn't die alone. In natural reflex, the Raiders turned and returned fire with their cannons. Individually, the cannons were pathetically weak by Inner Sphere standards. In addition, only two hundred and six Raiders could actually return fire without their flight mates obstructing their fire. Still, that was a lot of guns, and the Leopard's frontal and side armor was practically flayed away. Still, the Leopard could have conceivable survived the opening volley, except that one round slipped through one open mech bay door, punched through a wall and into one of the closed mech bays where the tylium traded from the Colonials was stored.

The resulting fireball vaporized the entire Dropship and its passengers.

* * *

Fenton Crackshell watched in horror as the Final Five ship died. He could hear and feel many of his fellow Cylons express the same feelings. And already, Fenton could sense denials and rationalizations making its way into the Basestar networks as the Cylons tried to come to grips with what they had just done. Idiots, he thought. Morons! What did they expect to…?

One of the statistics programs Fenton had been running pinged in his head, diverting him from unfolding disaster at hand. His eyes widened as he read the new data and understood the implications.

The resurrection net had just picked up the memories of eleven Cylons whose types it had no instructions for.

* * *

"Why did they do that?" Doral asked despairingly. "Why did they do that?"

Before anyone could answer, a new development called for their attention. The Type I Raiders rising from the surface had jumped out. Of more immediate concern was that the Hill had just opened fire on them.

* * *

Precentor Bareil stood in front of the café where he had breakfast every morning. This morning, it was closed. Puzzled, he looked around. Normally, the streets would be teeming with traffic by now. Instead, they were empty. Where had all the Cylons gone?

As if answering his thoughts, Bareil was suddenly hammered with a wall of light and sound as Hill launched forty capital missiles skyward.

* * *

"Defensive fire only!" Cavil snapped as the missiles from the Hill reached towards them.

When they had first discovered the Final Five living on this planet, the Six had for convenience's sake placed their Basestars in orbit directly over Cylonville. It was for the Five's protection of course. Unfortunately, with the Hill firing directly up at them, it was the _worst_ spot to be defensively when fighting an opponent on the ground. Still, they had four Basestars to coordinate defensive fire and the advantage of their weapons not having to fight gravity.

The others understood why Cavil had ordered defensive fire only. They had to minimize damage to the Final Five if they were to salvage anything out of this fiasco.

But again, God, fate, the universe, or whatever was not cooperating.

Having fought only the Colonials, the Six Cylons had become spoiled, fighting in the manner of accustomed technical superiority. They had launched their counter-missiles as they would have against a Colonial attack. But for a critical moment the Six had forgotten that they weren't fighting Colonials this time; they were fighting fellow Cylons.

Nineteen capitol missiles made it through the counter-missile fire. The reserve Raiders killed six. Last ditch gun emplacements nailed three more. One of the Six's Basestars was struck by the remaining ten. It shuddered with each hit, but the damage was mostly cosmetic until the last missile found one of the shuttle airlocks exploded inside, snapping off a pylon in the middle of its length.

Below meanwhile, gravity played merry hell. Where gravity had been their advantage tactically, it became an absolute beast in other ways. The Six Cylons watched in horror as debris rained down on the fields and town surrounding the Hill causing untold damage and starting fires that promised even more. And that was before the counter-missiles that missed joined the fray

Nineteen counter-missiles rained down, their impacts having the force of minor nuclear warheads. Sixteen landed in farm fields rich with partially grown grain. Two landed in virgin woods the Five had set aside as park land. One hit the Hill itself, causing only superficial damage and exposing some armor.

One hit Cylonville dead center.

* * *

"Oh, the poor bastards," Hot Dog said, not quite believing that he was feeling sympathy for Cylons of all things. First things first: he and a Fleet to defend and incoming Raiders to kill.

There were a lot of Raiders.

They were still pretty far away. Hot Dog could only make out a smear of speckled light at this distance. But the enemy was coming in hard and fast and would be on them in only a few minutes.

The cloud was growing fast and was beginning to resolve into individual fighters when hundreds of old Type I Raiders flashed into existence on their flanks. The inertia they carried though FTL had them charging right at the Vipers.

"Frak!" someone yelled on the wireless. "Ambush!"

Hot Dog hauled on his stick, rapidly reorienting his Viper to shoot at the intruders. Only, the Final Five Raiders broke off first, swerving away from the Colonials and towards the oncoming Type IIs.

"Hold your fire!" Hot Dog said over the open Viper frequency as the newcomers engaged their SS counterparts. Most Vipers held their fire, but someone wasn't so quick on the uptake. Hot Dog almost groaned as a stream of red tracers raced outwards.

Hot Dog had heard the rumors that the Final Five had some kind of super armor on their fighters. He didn't believe it until he saw several rounds bounce off the targeted Raider to little effect.

* * *

"Hey! He shot at us! I'm going to…"

"Negative! Stay in formation Nine!"

"What? He shot you, Ten!"

"He's also not pursuing. It was probably an accident. We'll deal with it later."

"Whatever. Hey! The Type IIs are in LRM range!"

* * *

The Inner Sphere called it _swarm_. In essence, if a missile missed its target or its target died first, the missile would go hunting for another one until it ran out of fuel. The Protectorate's advanced computing technology had improved on that, adding an IFF component and a choice for the user to turn it on and off at need. Still, it wasn't something to fire into a dense melee involving friendly units.

In this case, there was no melee. There were two separate groups charging at each other. Six hundred refitted Type I Raiders fired five LRMs each at a range which the Type II Raiders couldn't effectively reply. The Type IIs attempted to evade. They dropped decoys to spoof the missiles. But there were three thousand missiles coming at them and they had started out as a dense cloud, a perfect target for missiles in Swarm mode.

Unfortunately, the missiles they faced were Inner Sphere designs. The Inner Sphere had been dealing with far more effective anti-missile systems for centuries. The solution they had come up with in the end was to simply overwhelm any possible defense with sheer volume of fire.

Of three thousand LRMs, half were spoofed by and expended themselves on decoys. That still left nine hundred and fifty seven Type II Raiders to deal with fifteen hundred missiles. Design decisions made by their masters had left them with little in the way of armor. They could be killed by a single LRM and many were. Others were lucky insofar as they only had a wing blown off. But this left them as sitting ducks for LRMs whose original targets had already been destroyed.

Twenty two Type II Raiders actually survived unscathed, shielded in their rear most position by their flight mates and debris. Inertia carried them forward into the laser armed teeth of their intact Type I counterparts.

From first shot fired to the destruction of the last Type II was seventeen seconds.

* * *

Fenton noted the quick destruction of the Raiders. Statistics programs pulled data from the rest of the local network. One thousand Type II Raiders destroyed. The Six's local resurrection net waited like a monstrous houseplants waiting to be watered with the memories belonging to the killed Raiders.

No memories came. The local net reported that one thousand Raider memories had been downloaded to other resurrection stations. Fenton blinked. There weren't any other resurrections stations except…

_BOOMER!_

* * *

Grief. Sadness. Mourning. Failure.

These were the emotions running through the Hill as it soaked up the memories of those killed in the bombardment. Defense had been why the Hill had been placed here, after all, and it had failed. But another, hotter emotion was running through the Hill too.

Fury.

In a double flash of light, the Hill vanished with a monstrous thunderclap as air rushed in to fill the vacuum left behind.

* * *

"Call in reinforcements."

"What?" Cavil said.

"Call in reinforcements," Boomer repeated. "Now, before those Raiders get here."

"Those fighters can't hurt us…" Doral began.

"Yes, they CAN hurt us," Boomer snapped. "We're in BASEstars, not BATTLEstars. We don't have sufficient anti-fighter guns and missiles to fend off that many fighters and our Raiders are obviously worthless against them. They will swarm us. They might not be able to penetrate our armor, but they can sure as hell attack anything that's exposed: sensors arrays, weapons, you name it. They'll reduce us to blind, unarmed hulks that a frakking five year old could take out!"

Outside, the Hill materialized from a FTL jump above the Six's Basestars. Surprise was complete. As it shook off the vegetation and topsoil still clinging to its saucers, the Type I Basestar could finally use ALL its weapons. The first salvo went in almost completely unopposed.

A Type III Basestar used by the Six massed less than the original Type I. Where the Type III had pylons, the Type I had full saucers. The Type III had been designed by human-form Cylons to be lived in. In contrast, the Type I had originally been designed by humans as a heavily automated military support base. While less comfortable than a Type III, a Type I was better armed and armored, almost a match for any three Type III Basestars.

"Call the frakking reinforcements!" Boomer shouted at her Basestar rocked from the impacts.

* * *

An unfamiliar emotion ran through Nine as she downloaded the news of Cylonville's destruction. Certainly she would miss the place. And there were friends she would never see again. Sadness wasn't an emotion that Nines had never felt before. The universe was always changing after all. Things came. Things went. Nothing lasted.

But somehow, this new emotion was different, something hot and bitter that no Nine had ever experienced before. There was no time to analyze it however. As her Type I Raider swept towards the dueling Basestars, Type II Raiders appeared ahead, moving to intercept Nine's formation. A quick count showed that there was Nine's own force outnumbered them three to one. This wasn't even going to be as hard as a cakewalk.

"Okay, you guys wanna dance?" Nine snarled, locking on to a random enemy Raider. "Let's…"

Up ahead, three more Type III Basestars suddenly jumped in and began pouring fire into the Hill. At the same time, twelve hundred Type II Raiders jumped in and fell upon Nine's group of six hundred from the flank at knife fighting range. They opened up with missiles and THESE missiles were each more than capable of shredding even an up-armored Type I Raider.

Which one did to Nine's.


	26. Episode 25: Second Thoughts

**Fifth Column  
Episode 25: Second Thoughts**

**21 March 3060  
Battlespace  
New Saint Andrews System  
Cylon Protectorate**

Boomer watched the Raider ambush closely. It had been close; the Five's Raiders had almost reached the Basestars before the Six's reinforcements arrived. There had been a slight delay as the fresh Raiders were frantically loaded with the most powerful anti-fighter missiles they could carry. That had been Boomer's suggestion; the Raider at the Ionian Nebula had sustained a staggering number of hits without being killed. And these Type I Raiders had already proven they could swat Type II Raiders out of the sky with ridiculous ease.

Even then, the ambush didn't get every Five Raider. The hundred farthest from the incoming missile swarm reacted with lightning speed, evading the missiles targeting them and in three cases, actually shot them down. And then the reinforcement Raiders were out of missiles and closed to use their guns. As the dog fight developed, the Five proved their individual superiority. Their armor could take hits that would have killed the original Type I. They could take all that many more hits, but what they could take threw the kill ratio heavily in their favor, especially as they sprayed laser blasts and missiles everywhere. Every laser shot killed a Type II Raider. Every salvo of missiles seemed to kill two or three more.

Boomer shook her head in disbelief. How many missiles did those Raiders carry? Not that it mattered. The Five's Raiders were dying slowly, one by one, but they were dying. And they were taking hordes of Six Raiders with them. Boomer would be surprised if they had more than a dozen Raiders after their "victory".

A big fireball drew Boomer's attention away from the Raider battle. One of the Six's Basestars – the one that had half a pylon blown off – was slowly blossoming with light and plasma and debris. With that one gone, the Five's Type I Basestar shifted its fire and began concentrating its fire on another one of the Six's damage Type II Basestars. There were seven – well six now – Type II Basestars, but they were still fighting defensively. At this close range, they were expending six to seven counter-missiles each to stop every one of the Five's anti-ship missiles and some were still leaking through.

"Frak, this defensive fire crap," Boomer snapped. "Unload everything we've got into that Basestar!"

It was telling how no one even argued with her. There were no protests, no disagreements, no suggestions of "minimizing damage to the Five". The Six's Basestars just shifted fire immediately and began pounding the Type I with their own capital missiles.

"This is just… wrong," Shelley murmured.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Doral said weakly.

"Great, now you guys realize that?" Boomer said scathingly. "Next time you vote to attack someone, try to have second thoughts BEFORE the shooting starts. Now save the denial and rationalizations for later. We have a battle to fight."

* * *

"SS Basestars are now shelling the FF Basestar," Gaeta reported.

"Someone over on those SS ships has finally gotten some sense," Tigh commented. He studied the display of the battle and shook his head. "I never thought I'd hear my self say this, but I think I actually feel sorry for these Final Five Cylons. They're taking a hell of shellacking."

"Why are your people doing this?" Roslin asked One. "You're fighting a losing battle to defend us - people you've made clear that you don't like - when you didn't have to."

"Madame President, it is the principle of the thing," One replied gravely. "When we first came here, we made agreements with the human communities on several worlds such as this one. We agreed that we would protect them from outside predators in exchange for establishing local colonies. As time passed, the area we protected came to include the entire star system in which those planets existed. The Inner Sphere calls us a Protectorate, and we have taken that name for ourselves.

"You came here with the understanding that you would be under our protection for the duration of your stay," One continued. "As such, we are obligated to protect you whoever and whatever decides to attack you, be it a few Basestars," he gestured at the battle display, "or the entire combined fleets of the Thirteenth Colony."

"Sir," Dualla called. "All civilian ships report ready to jump."

"Understood," Admiral Adama said, his eyes not leaving the display. "Tell them to standby and wait for my word."

"We're not leaving right away?" Roslin asked, surprised. "Won't the SS Cylons turn on us after they finish off the Five?"

"I doubt it, Madame President," Adama replied with a humorless chuckle. "The way that battle's going, the Seven aren't going be in any shape to pursue anyone when they finish with the Five… the Protectorate." Adama put special emphasis on that name and no one mistook his meaning. "Who knows? If the Protectorate weakens them enough, the Galactica might be able to waltz in and finish them off. We get some respite from SS pursuit," he turned and looked directly at One, "and just maybe we can avenge your people."

"I assure you, Admiral," One replied. "That will not be necessary."

"Contact!" Dualla shouted. "Twelve miles to starboard… Admiral, it's Athena. She's wants to talk to you."

"Put her on," Adama told her, picking up a handset. "Athena, this is Galactica Actual. Go ahead."

"Sir," came the reply. "We checked out the asteroid field and it looks like the entirety of…"

"Contact!" Dualla shouted again. "New contacts at the battle! I make it as two saucer Basestars, four Guardian Basestars, and a…" Dualla trailed off. "That's impossible!"

* * *

"Alright!" Cavil cheered as a missile hit something vital on the Type I. A plume of venting atmosphere and debris could easily be seen. The Basestar lurched drunkenly to the side

"You don't have to sound so happy," Simon told him disapprovingly.

"I take my happy where I can get it," Cavil replied.

Boomer ignored them, intent on tracking the battle's progress. They were running low on counter-missiles; absently, Boomer sent out an order for Centurions to start pulling counter-missiles out of storage and take them to the launch magazines. Boomer also noted that the Six's anti-ship missiles were having a surprisingly hard time penetrating the Type I's defensive fire. Still, seven to one odds would eventually overwhelm…

Out of nowhere, bolts of lightning rained down on one of the Six's heavily damaged Basestars. In shock, the Cylon's attention whirled away from the close in battle to the see a _Battlestar_ charging their formation, fighters and missiles being launched as it did. The accompanying Type I and Type II Basestars behind it hardly registered.

Flashbacks of the Battle of New Caprica ran through every Cylon's head. Their Basestars tried to scatter, but their lack of heavy engines left them with anemic accelerations. If the Battlestar intended to ram, there was little they could do to avoid it. Luckily, that appeared not to be the case as the Battlestar flipped over, lightning guns still blazing, and began decelerating.

What the Battlestar DID do was in a way worse than ramming.

The Battlestar's four main engines decelerated it at four gravities, blasting out a massive lance of pure fusion fire – not tylium, the Dradis sensors were clear on this: FUSION – into the undamaged Basestar that it had been on collision course with. The Basestar blackened and wilted away from the fire like a hothouse flower under a blowtorch as the Battlestar came to a stop next to it. When the Battlestar came to a complete stop, the engines switched off, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the torched, blackened hulk that used to be a Basestar was completely dead.

The explosion of the other Basestar that it had been shooting at was almost anticlimactic.

* * *

"A Battlestar?" Adama repeated, turning to glare at One. Cylons using Battlestars? That just seemed wrong somehow.

"It has occurred to us," One began to explain with the air of a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, "that there may come a day when we would need a dedicated fighting platform." He shrugged apologetically. "What can I say? You inspired us."

* * *

The Battlestar had a Cylon ID code. It looked different from any Battlestar that Boomer had ever seen before. Aside from the bright white paint job, it was a boxy, slab-sided monstrosity with almost no curves anywhere to be seen. It was about the same length as the Galactica, but the straight lines gave it a flatter, slimmer appearance.

And oh yes, the Cylon Battlestar was pouring bright, blue-white bolts of charged particles into the surrounding Basestars with abandon. There was no concentrated fire here. The range was so short that the Battlestar was actually taking time to aim at vital parts of the Six's Basestars. To top it off, it had banks of some kind of dedicated point defense gun that swatted the missiles thrown at it with ridiculous ease. The few missiles that made contact did little more than scratch its paint.

Remarkably, none of this fire touched Boomer's Basestar.

Meanwhile, the two hundred Raiders swept in to rescue their beleaguered comrades from New Saint Andrews. These new Raiders looked like bigger, meaner cousins of the Six's Type II Raiders. The Super Raiders – Boomer couldn't think of a better name to call them – didn't bother with missiles. They went in lasers blazing against the surviving seven hundred plus standard Type II Raiders.

The Super Raiders didn't even bother trying to evade return fire. It quickly became evident why. Return fire that would have killed an enhanced Type I Raider did little more that chip the Super Raider's armor. The Super Raiders just aimed and fired, every shot blowing away a Type II Raider. Then they turned and shot again. Within four volleys, there were no longer ANY Type II Raiders over New Saint Andrews.

And coming in from the newly arrive Final Five Basestars were four hundred more Super Raiders backed up by two thousand Type I Raiders.

Then Boomer saw the Battlestar launch small craft that looked something like Heavy Raiders, only more heavily armed. As one, they all turned and headed toward Boomer's Basestar. Boomer suddenly realized why her Basestar had been untouched by the new arrivals.

"Jump us out," Boomer said suddenly. "Now."

"What?" Cavil said, startled. "We can win this!"

"No we can't!" Boomer snapped back. "Look around! We're outnumbered, outgunned, and almost out of ammunition. We either run right now or we die because I really don't think the Final Five have any spare bodies for us. Now jump us out of here!"

The others traded looks of fear. They then turned back to her and spoke as one.

"By your command."

* * *

"…instructions from my people," One was saying. "The Protectorate would like to hire the services of the Eight and the Six that you have on board."

The battle had been over for about half an hour. In the face of superior forces, the SS Basestars had jumped, running away. The FF forces had stayed behind to recover their survivors and assess the damages.

"Why? What do you want them for?" Adama asked, going into protective more. Athena at least was one of his own, and he protected his own as best he could.

"We have picked up a number of memories from the Sanctimonious Six Cylons," One explained. "To read them, we require an actual living Six to read memories from Sixes, an Eight to read Eight memories and so forth. They can then translate the memories into files that can be read by any my people."

Adama grunted. He could see what kind of intelligence windfall that would be.

"And exactly what kind of payment do you have in mind for their 'services'?" Roslin asked. At Adama's look, she added quickly, "Assuming they agree of course."

"For a start, I imagine that you'll want to be able to talk to the people of the Thirteenth Colony without having to use us as a translator," One replied. "We could provide your Six and Eight with a vocabulary file so that they can instantly read and speak English."

"That's…" Roslin didn't know quite what to say. The Protectorate was giving up a major hold over the Colonials if they did that.

"Admiral!" Dualla called out. "Protectorate Battlestar and Guardian Basestars have just jumped out."

Lee Adama, who had been quietly standing by and feeling useless all this time, went over to Dualla and looked at her screen. Then he started laughing softly.

"What? What is it?" the elder Adama asked.

"The time between when the SS bugged out and the Protectorate ships jumped," Lee replied between laughs, "is exactly thirty three minutes."

The entire CIC abruptly joined Lee in laughing.

"I say, is that time period significant?" One asked, obviously bewildered.

"You know," Roslin replied. "I was about to ask you the same thing."


	27. Episode 26: 33 Redux

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 26: 33 Redux**

**21 March 3060  
****Cylon Expeditionary Force  
****Periphery**

The Resurrection Ship floated in interstellar space in all its holy glory. The vessel was first and foremost a massive antenna array composed of the vacant bodies of various human-form models of Cylon, ready to pick up any stray soul that got tossed into the void.

It was also virtually unarmored, a necessity to maximize receptivity.

As a result, the Cylons – the faction now being called the SS anyway – were fanatical about protecting their lifeline. Four Basestars had gone to check out New Saint Andrews several days ago. Four had remained behind to guard the Resurrection Ship. Both forces had been considered sufficient by themselves to be able to fend off the Galactica should the Battlestar appear at either location.

The two forces had stayed in contact of course. So the Basestars on guard was aware of the events that had transpired over New Saint Andrews. Three Basestars and all the reserve Raiders had been called to go reinforce their beleaguered comrades, leaving behind one nervous Basestar with no fighter support. If anything attacked the Resurrection Ship, the lone Basestar might not be able to provide sufficient coverage to protect its charge.

And then the four burned and broken survivors appeared. The single, intact Basestar found that its defensive responsibilities had multiplied.

* * *

"We… we should go back," Shelley Godfrey suggested. "Tell them we're sorry."

"Sorry? For what?" Doral asked. "It wasn't our fault! We weren't intending to bombard the planet. They shot at us first!"

"We should try and talk to them again," Simon said. "Make them see…" He trailed off at the sound of laughter. Everyone turned to the source.

"Is something funny, Boomer?" Cavil asked, annoyed.

"Look at you guys," Boomer replied, her every word loaded with contempt. "Ooh, I'm sorry I shot you! Let's be friends!" she said mockingly.

"Look, if you're not going to be helpful…" Cavil began.

"Helpful? You want helpful? I'll give you helpful," Boomer interrupted. She started ticking off her fingers. "One: You violated Final Five territorial space when you moved to attack the Colonials against their say so. Two: When they told you to stop, you ignored them. Three: When they tried to enforce that order, you shot back at them. Four: By any standards, all that adds up to an act of war!"

"War?" Doral exclaimed in surprise. "We're not at…"

A Basestar-wide alarm klaxon went off in their heads.

* * *

There were two Centurions on the open balcony where the modified Heavy Raider landed. They had been automatically sent by the Basestar's Hybrid to service the Cylon craft. Conveniently, the Heavy Raider landed with its loading ramp facing the two drones.

When the loading ramp dropped, five Centurions stepped out. They were of a type that the two drone Centurions were unfamiliar with. Being nonsentient, the two drones were utterly unconcerned about the strangers. They were Cylons. That was enough for them to be considered "friendly".

The drones were still unconcerned when two of the strangers raised leveled their guns and blew the drones to scrap. The sentient Cylons on board were not so blasé.

* * *

"Where did they come from?" Shelley demanded as they watched four of the Final Five's Centurions take up defensive positions around their Heavy Raider. The fifth Centurion stood at the foot of the boarding ramp and seemed to be directing the others.

"Several of those Heavy Raiders were launched by the Five's Battlestar before we jumped," Boomer replied absently, as she studied the Heavy Raider. "One of them must have made it onboard." It looked like it had started out as a standard Heavy Raider, but someone had added missile launchers on wing mounts and the nose armament had been changed to some kind of turret. The single gun on the turret looked… odd.

"I've got a couple squads of Centurions going to meet them," Cavil said confidently. "Let's see how they like three to one odds."

The Heavy Raider closed its ramp, lifted off, and spun leisurely around so that its weapons now covered the balcony entrance. As it did so, its pilot sent out a standard data request into the Basestar's network. And it got a reply. Boomer would never have noticed had she not been studying the Heavy Raider so closely. A quick query revealed that the pilot had just downloaded the Basestar's deck plans.

"Somebody stop that!" Boomer shouted.

* * *

"Well, poop," Eleven swore when firewalls slammed down, cutting her off from the local net. The Sanctimonious Six were quicker than she had expected on the uptake. Of course, this would only slow her down, not stop her.

But first, there were those local Centurions that had just come around the bend. With but an afterthought, Eleven triggered her Heavy Raider's nose mount.

* * *

The Cylons watched in sick fascination as the Heavy Raider swept a laser across the first squad of defenders, obliterating three Centurions entirely. The remaining five were dropped were taken down by a single burst each from the foreign Centurions' heavy weapons. Two of the defenders managed to return fire, but Boomer couldn't even tell if they had managed to even hit the enemy, never mind inflict damage.

And those weapons were something else. They were big. In a human infantry squad, Boomer would have considered them a two man support weapon. These Centurions wielded their guns as if they were submachine guns or rifles. And while three of the weapons looked like regular machine guns, two of them were more of those lasers weapons. And all of them could puncture Centurion armor… or at least the Six's Centurion armor. Boomer had no idea if the reverse was true.

"Hold off using the second Centurion squad until the boarders can't get support from their Heavy Raider," Boomer said as she watched the enemy squad move into the corridors.

"By your command."

"By the way," Boomer added. "Does anyone know what Cylon boarding procedures are?"

* * *

This time, the defenders managed to get in the first shot. The Six's Centurions cut loose with their built-in weaponry, filling the corridor containing the enemy Centurions with a rain of lead. The attack was about as effective as actual rain would have been.

The Six had equipped their Centurions with Colonial troops in mind. That meant they were made to fight virtually unarmored targets. The bullets were high velocity and small caliber, designed NOT to penetrate Centurion armor to prevent accidental fratricide among the dumb drones. But this time, their targets were armored, and their bullets bounced off without so much as marring the paint.

The Five's Centurions however had been equipped with armored targets in mind. Their heavy bullets and powerful lasers could penetrate the defender's paper thin (by Inner Sphere standards) armor in one burst. They used their advantage ruthlessly.

* * *

"Okay, they're coming here," Boomer said, pointing at the Hybrid.

"…bubble bubble toil and trouble…" the Hybrid babbled. "…make a decision or we're all deep trouble…"

"And," Boomer added as she watched the invading Centurions start butchering a third squad of defenders. They were hardly being slowed down. "We need a better defensive strategy."

"Um, why?" Everyone turned to the speaker, Doral. "Look, we're the only Basestar with boarders. If it looks like we're going to lose the Basestar, we can just self destruct. We'll just resurrect since the Resurrection Ship is right…"

Another alarm went off.

* * *

The Cylon Battlestar accompanied by four Type II Basestars jumped in at roughly seven thousand miles – just a hair over eleven thousand kilometers using Inner Sphere measurements – away from the Six's fleet. When they did, it had been exactly thirty three minutes since the survivors of New Saint Andrews had arrived.

"What the hell is that?" Ten asked, pointing at the strange looking ship sitting in the midst of the enemy Basestars. It actually looked bigger than its escorts.

"It looks like some kind of support ship," Twelve guessed. "Or maybe it's a long distance communications array."

"Ooh! Ooh! I know what it is!" Nine said enthusiastically.

"We've never seen anything like it before," One told her. Nines had never shown much interest in 'technical junk' before. "What do you think it is?"

"A big, fat target!"

The other Cylons traded looks.

"Works for me!" Eleven chirped.

* * *

The range was impossible. At seven thousand miles, only capital missiles should have been able to reach this far and hit anything. And with the amount of tracking time the Six would have had, getting an actual missile hit would have been nigh impossible even in their damaged state.

Bolts of charged particles moving at near light speeds didn't give a damn.

Of course, at seven thousand miles, the accuracy of the Battlestar's naval particle projection cannons suffered. This was due entirely to the limitations the turret mechanisms that adjusted aim. They couldn't produce the fine fractions-of-a degree changes required to truly lock on to a target. Even the minor expansions caused by simply firing the weapon could make the difference between a hit and a miss. But at seven thousand miles it was still theoretically possible to hit a ship-sized target.

The Resurrection Ship was bracketed by fire that no point defense gun or counter-missile in the galaxy could stop. Only two out of dozens of shots actually struck, one raking the unarmored vessel across the body-holding arrays, and the other spearing the main engine. Without armor, the Resurrection Ship simply crumpled up like a giant origami sculpture in a careless giant's hand.

* * *

"Jump us all out of here! Now!" Boomer snapped out as the second Resurrection Ship ever turned into orange-white fireball. As the FTL drives throughout the remaining fleet spun up, she regarded the boarders. "And shut all the blast doors now!"

* * *

"Aw, they ran away," Eleven said, disappointed.

"Yeah, we didn't even get to launch fighters," Nine agreed. "Let's go after them."

"Hey, anyone want to check out the debris?" Twelve asked.

* * *

The Final Five Centurions regarded the closed blast door in front of them. One experimentally rapped its knuckles on the door. The door was thick, designed to prevent battle damage from completely venting a Basestar by cutting off the damaged area. Even with their weapons, cutting through it would have been problematical.

Or at least, it SHOULD have been a problem.

With a simple, standard request to the Basestar's net, the enemy Centurion opened the door.

* * *

"Oh, for the love God," Boomer groaned in frustration. She switched to Basestar-wide broadcast. "Okay, people, this is what we're going to do. Close ALL the blast doors in that section right now!"

Compliance was immediate, momentarily trapping the enemy Centurions again.

"Everyone in the pylons, start working on keeping the enemy OUT of our frakking network!"

The boarders requested another door to open. It raised about half way, then came crashing back down. The Centurions looked at each other. One with a laser just shrugged and started blasting away at the door with a narrow, constant beam. At this rate, the invaders would carve themselves an opening in a few minutes. Then they'd have to get through the next door…

"Every Cylon in the hub needs to hit the nearest armory to them and start grabbing any heavy weapon we have," Boomer continued. "Rockets, demolition charges, crew served weapons, whatever we got."

Simon frowned. "Shouldn't the Centurions do that?"

"No, they'll be too busy slowing these guys down," Boomer told him. She pulled up a Basestar schematic and studied it. "Okay, I want Centurions here, here, and here," she said, pointing out specific corridors. "Pack them in. I want wall-to-wall Centurions. And tell the Centurions to go for hand-to-hand fighting if they can. Their guns won't work."

"By your command."

Boomer turned to the other problem. The Five's Heavy Raider was circling the central vault, slowly orbiting the cone that was the Basestar's tylium reactor and gravity drive in one. It was obvious what the heavily armed shuttle would do if the boarding party was unsuccessful.

"Okay, I need a volunteer to take out that Heavy Raider," Boomer announced. As she said that, some unlucky or unwise Cylon appeared on a balcony ahead of the Heavy Raider. The Raider's laser immediately lashed out and cooked him instantly.

Boomer got no reply for her request from… anyone. The network was deafening in its silence.

"Well, frak," Boomer sighed. She pulled out her gun and gave it a quick inspection. "I guess I'll have to take care of that one myself."

* * *

The Final Five Centurions had made it to a four way intersection when the ambush was sprung. They had been half way through cutting another blast door when it and the other two closed doors popped open. Three hundred and six defending Centurions – all that could be stuffed into the connecting corridors rushed forward and swarmed the five invaders.

The boarders reacted instantly, mowing down defenders with their guns on full automatic fire. But sheer weight of metal meant that gun and laser fire quickly became useless. It was now down to hand-to-hand. And here, the Five's Centurions proved their individual superiority again.

The defenders could do little but scratch the invader's armor with their claws. In return, every boarder's punch dented, every butt stroke crushed. The invading Centurions were down to using their heavy weapons as heavy clubs. One was forced to drop its gun, but then blades sprang from its forearms that cut through the defender's armor with a whining screech.

More blast doors opened and more defending Centurions joined the fray.

* * *

Boomer ran onto a high balcony high above the central vault. In her mind's eye, she could see exactly where the Five's Heavy Raider was. But the Heavy Raider couldn't see her. Yet.

She was trailed by two Centurions that couldn't be stuffed into the ambush area. One was carrying a hastily slapped together package. The other was carrying a large coil of cable and a leather harness.

Boomer quickly donned the harness and attached one end of the cable to it. Then she took the package and attached it to the harness via a D-ring. The coil of cable was placed on the floor and the length between Boomer and it was grasped by the two Centurions.

Boomer checked the net clock. Thirty two minutes and fifty three seconds since the last FTL jump.

At thirty three minutes, the Five Battlestar and Basestars jumped in at five hundred miles, launched Raiders and opened fire. The Six Basestars launched counter-missiles and attack missiles, but there was little they could do against the energy weapons but spin up their FTL drives and jump away.

Boomer waited as the drive spun up, then turned around and took a flying leap off the balcony. The Five's Heavy Raider was directly below her and reacted instantly, spinning around to bring its laser to bear on her descending body. Boomer stared right into the face of death…

The Basestar jumped.

* * *

Jump nausea hit, throwing off Eleven's aim. The laser slashed harmlessly into an unoccupied balcony. There was a thump, and suddenly there was an Eight on her canopy. The Eight slammed down some kind of box thing that stuck to her canopy and then leapt away.

Three seconds later, a fireball engulfed the front of the Heavy Raider as the satchel charge blew. Dangling from her cable, Boomer watched it flip end over end as it fell to the bottom of the vault.

* * *

"Lady's first."

"I'm not going first! You go first!"

"Okay, how's this? We both go at the same time."

The intersection had been quiet for some time. No one knew if they had won in there or not. No Centurions responded to communications requests. Most of the pickups in there were broken, and those that weren't could only see masses of broken Centurion parts. A nameless Five and Six had been elected to go in and check out the situation. Needless to say, they were not enthusiastic.

They crept forward slowly and carefully. Five had a shoulder-fired RPG. Six had an automatic rifle loaded with explosive rounds. When they saw the battle site, they stopped. There was no point going on; progress was impossible. The corridor was blocked. Centurion parts were stacked from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

Five and Six relaxed.

"Well," Five said loudly, confidently even. "I guess this means we…"

There was a crash and a Final Five Centurion staggered out of the junk pile. Its armor was crack and abraded everywhere. One arm hung nonfunctional. It was leaking red fluid in numerous spots. It had a limp.

It still looked very, very deadly.

The Cylons opened fire in a panic. It ducked Five's single shot; the rocket propelled grenade expended itself harmlessly on the junk pile. Six fired a burst, but in her panic, the recoil threw off her aim. Only one round hit. There was a small explosion and the Centurion staggered back.

Before Six could fire again, the Centurion drew a pistol from a thigh holster and shot her in the torso dead center. As Six slumped bonelessly to the deck, the Centurion shifted its aim to Five. Five squeezed his eyes shut and began praying frantically.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Five didn't fall over dead. A quick internal check revealed that he was still alive and uninjured. Cracking open an eye, he saw the enemy Centurion lying down in a pool of fluid that looked a lot like blood. And didn't the gunfire come from behind him?

He looked over his shoulder and saw Boomer standing there, smoking gun in hand.

* * *

The others arrived several minutes later to find Boomer sprawled out, using the twisted pile of Centurions as an improvised chair. The dead enemy Centurion was being used as a footrest. The setup looked remarkably like monarch on her throne.

"That was just… that was just the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Cavil was saying.

"Yes," Simon added. "Boomer, God has truly blessed us with your presence."

"Oh good," Boomer said balefully. "Then we better start discussing on how we're going to fight this war."

"Look, I've said it before and I'll say it again," Doral said in exasperation. "We are not…"

BOOM!

Doral's body flopped to the floor. Bits and pieces of his head decorated the rest of he command council.

"Damn," Boomer said with annoyance as she examined her gun. The slide had locked back. "I need to reload."

"Well, at least the Final Five aren't too different from us," Shelley said, trying to change the subject to something less… terrifying. She looked down at the enemy Centurion, nudged it with her foot, and sniffed disdainfully. "And they claim they don't use Centurions."

"You think so, do you?" Boomer said with a humorless laugh. She leaned forward and felt around the head. "Watch this."

There was a click, and the Centurion's head slid right off, revealing the face of a model Ten.

"Come on," Boomer ordered as she stood up. "We have a war to plan."

"By your command," the council chorused.

Outside, the Five's Battlestar and Basestars flashed into existence. As Boomer's Basestars spun up their FTL drives again, Boomer sensed the Battlestar making a standard Cylon data request.

"And keep the Frakking Five out of our net, dammit!"


	28. Episode 27: Life and Death

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 27: Life and Death**

**22 March 3060  
****Basestar  
****New Caprica  
****Cylon Territory**

"How are you feeling?" Boomer asked.

"Like someone set off a bomb in front of my face," Eleven replied an unwilling giggle. She winced. "Ow."

Amazingly enough, Eleven had survives just such a thing. She had been the pilot of the Heavy Raider that Boomer had bombed. Boomer had people examining the thing and she had already heard about how incredibly tough its armor was. The bomb Boomer had planted had only cracked it, but enough of the concussion had filtered through the armor to knock Eleven out. The landing had been rough.

Which was why Eleven was in traction.

Although Eleven was technically a prisoner of war, Boomer had decided to put her in standard sleeping quarters. It was spacious, allowing room for medical monitoring equipment… and two of the few surviving Centurions to stand guard. In fact, these two were the same Centurions that Boomer had used during her little stunt on Eleven yesterday. They were under orders to let no one but Boomer and Simon in. The former was because no one was going to deny her anything right now. The latter was because Boomer trusted Simon not to do anything untoward to Eleven.

Most of the other Cylons on board were understandably angry and scared.

"I think I'm going to have to abandon New Caprica," Boomer went on. "I don't think I can hold it with what I've got."

That was certainly true. There had only been one Basestar here when the survivors had straggled in. It had originally been tasked with making New Caprica more livable. There were bushes and grass growing down there now. But since the arrival of Boomer's little fleet, it had been busy helping to repair their damage and make up their losses. They even had a spare Five body for Doral. Joy.

"New Caprica?" Eleven echoed. "Where's that?"

"So you guys don't know where it is yet?" Boomer said with an apologetic smile. It wouldn't last of course. The Frakking Five – that was what everyone was calling them now, though Boomer wasn't sure who first used that term - only had to ask the Colonials for New Caprica's location. "That's good. It means we have a little time."

Eleven opened her mouth to say something. Then she shut it with an audible click and glared at Boomer.

"So, Eleven," Boomer said easily. "Maybe you can clear up a bit of trivia for me." Boomer held up a hand to forestall a protest… or more likely judging from Eleven's expression, an insult. "I'm not going to ask you about you guys' tech as much as I'd like to. I already know you're not going to tell me anything."

Eleven just continued glaring at her.

"What I want to know is," Boomer continued, "is why you guys are here in the first place. Why did you guys leave? Given your attitudes, I'm pretty damn sure you wouldn't have approved a sneak attack on the Colonies. It would have saved everyone - you, us, the Colonials – a lot of grief and trouble if you had stayed."

"You don't know?" Eleven asked with disbelief in her voice. "How can you not know? Aren't there records and stuff?"

"They're locked," Boomer said disgustedly. "Even 'the Hero of Cylon' can't get at them."

"Well, I ain't telling you anything," Eleven said. Boomer imagined she would have crossed her arms and pouted if she hadn't been in a body cast. As it was, Eleven settled for just pouting. "Go ask someone who was there," Eleven continued. "I'm sure they remember."

"Boomer," Simon said as he stepped into the room. "The command council is meeting. Do you want to attend?"

"You know," Boomer said, standing up, "I think I just might do that."

"Give them hell," Eleven offered grudgingly.

"Only if they piss me off," Boomer replied.

**Basestar  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

As they approached the Type II Basestar, Athena studied it and compared its design to what she knew of the original Type II. The original had been a one off, a prototype that had never seen mass production. The 0005 Centurions had taken it and left Cylon space for parts unknown years before the Final Five had their own exodus. Eventually, the Colonial refugee fleet had stumbled across and destroyed the Guardians shortly before New Caprica had been discovered.

The Final Five's Type II was obviously based on the Guardians' Type II. Instead of saucers, the upper and lower assemblies were flattened, three-sided pyramids with their bases facing each other and rotated so that each pyramid's corner overhung the middle of each of the other pyramid's sides. But there were enough design changes – notably the addition of lots of external docking ports – that Athena wondered if it should have been called a Type IV.

Well, it wasn't Athena's problem, she thought as her Raptor and passengers cycled through the Basestar's airlock. She and her passengers here were part of a trade deal. Athena and Caprica Six would go through the raw, captured memories of their former sisters and format them into something the Five could read and understand. In return, the Colonials would get food, medical supplies, and most importantly, information.

In addition, there were two marines who were supposed to make sure Six didn't do anything… rash. She was still technically a Colonial prisoner after all. The marines were also supposed to protect the party in case of Cylon treachery, but anyone who gave it two seconds thought would have laughed at the idea that they would be effective.

Then there was Lee Adama. Officially, he was in charge as the President's official representative. Unofficially, he was a sign of how much trust the Final Five had earned with President Roslin and Admiral Adama. And that was amazing when Athena considered how paranoid the Colonials had learned to be about anything labeled "Cylon". Athena herself had spent over a year and a half in Galactica's brig before they trusted her enough to let her wander around unescorted.

As they exited the Raptor, the Colonial party was greeted by a One, Nine, Eleven, Twelve, and oddly enough, a Centurion. Athena wondered where the Ten representative was.

"Greetings, welcome aboard," One greeted. "I am sure that we need no introductions, but I'm afraid the opposite isn't quite the same."

"Hello, I'm Lee Adama, President Roslin's representative," Lee said cautiously. His eyes were glued to the Centurion. "The marines are Private Simons and Private Grif. You know Six and, ah, Eight of course. Among us, Eight goes by 'Sharon' or more often her callsign, 'Athena'."

"Ah, thank you, Mister Adama," One said graciously. "We're delighted to meet you."

Eleven snorted derisively, glaring hard at Six and Athena. Nine on the other hand looked excited an ecstatic to meet them. Twelve looked… bored. And God only knew what the Centurion was thinking.

"Some of us more than others," One added quickly with a slightly pained expression.

"I'm sure we'll take your welcome in the spirit it was intended," Lee told him. Athena was impressed. He had only been working for Roslin less than a week and already he had mastered the art of political double speak. "So why isn't there a Ten here?"

"Why isn't…" One began, apparently confused by the question. Others were quicker on the uptake.

"I told you that you shouldn't have dressed up," Nine said to the Centurion as she nudged it with an elbow. The Centurion ignored her. Instead, it reached up and placed its hands on its head.

The Colonial party was dumbstruck when the head came off, revealing that it was only a helmet for the Ten underneath.

"Sorry about that," Ten said as he tucked the Centurion helmet under an arm. "I just wanted to be a bit cautious."

"Why…" Six said, the first who managed o speak. Even she had trouble finding words. "Why are you dressed like a Centurion?"

"Because it helps to have armor when you're in a fire fight," Ten answered, bemused.

"But… isn't that dangerous?" Six persisted.

"Yeah, it's dangerous," Ten replied. "It's dangerous, and tragic, and sometimes necessary. But fighting is also something you shouldn't do at the drop of a hat either. If it's important enough to fight over, it ought to be something worth risking your life over too."

The other Final Five Cylons nodded agreement.

Athena was beginning to get a glimmer of how different they really were… and how alike. Athena had a family now, something she would – and did on occasion – risk her continued existence for.

"So where do we start?" Lee asked.

"Six and… ah, Athena can begin any time they like," Eleven said.

"Oh, yeah," Twelve agreed. "We've tweaked the net permissions. You two guys have got access to the public database and we've set up your own subnets so you can get to work any time you like. We've also loaded translation matrices in the subnets you can grok the data on the public nets."

"That's nice," Lee said, nodding agreeably. He turned to Athena. "I hope to the gods you understood whatever he just said, Sharon."

"Don't worry, Apollo," Sharon reassured him. "Would you like me to translate what Twelve said into baby talk?"

**Basestar  
****New Caprica  
****Cylon Territory**

"No dammit!" Boomer shouted in frustration. She glared at Simon and dropped her voice to an icy gun patter. "I don't want to hear about what you think God wants." She switched the glare to the newly revived Doral. "I don't want to hear excuses and whining about how this isn't our fault." She turned on Leoben. "And I sure don't want to hear about any damned voices in your head." Boomer paused and throttled the urge to shoot someone… again. "What I… what we need are facts. What do we know for sure is actually true? Once we figure that out, we can get on with theorizing."

The others looked at each other.

"But… what facts do we have?" an unnamed Eight asked plaintively. She had been elected as the Eights' representative to the council. Somehow, Boomer was now considered 'too good' for the position anymore. "All we know is that the Five have somehow gotten superior weapons and armor. We don't know how."

"Let's start with something simple then," Boomer sighed. God, was she going to have to lead these idiots by the hand? "Fenton!"

"Er, yes, Boomer?" Fenton replied nervously. At Boomer's request, Fenton had attended the meeting. But so far, he had done nothing but play the wall flower. He still wasn't comfortable with other Cylons.

"What's the butcher's bill?" Boomer asked, her narrowed eyes locked on the rest of the command council.

"Two Basestars, two thousand four hundred Raiders, and the Resurrection Ship were destroyed out right," Fenton began. "Four more Basestars damaged, three of which have expended over ninety percent of their counter-missiles and sixty percent of their offensive missile load outs."

"Yeah, yeah, we already know that," Cavil said impatiently.

"Five thousand, six hundred eighty seven human model Cylons were killed," Fenton continued loudly. "Of those, the resurrection net logged all of them as being recovered by one ship or another, multiple times in some cases."

Several of the council nodded in satisfaction at the words. The resurrection net ensured that the Cylons would live on if their bodies died for whatever reason. Or at least it would if they had spare bodies of the appropriate model available. If not, then a poor soul – like Doral had – would have to wait until they were in FTL communications range of a Basestar or installation that did have the appropriate body.

"On inspection of the resurrection net," Fenton went on, "four thousand three hundred six human model and two thousand sixty five Raider memory sets are unaccounted for, meaning they are nowhere to be found in the local Cylon network."

Everyone but Fenton and Boomer was shocked. Then a clamor began, questions being thrown in and running together into a growing roar tinged with panic. And it wasn't just in this room. The chat networks were rapidly becoming clogged with messages being directed at Fenton and Boomer. Boomer let it build for several minutes, let the implications sink in; let everyone check the resurrection net to verify Fenton's statement. Then she put a stop to it.

"QUIET!!" Boomer roared.

Blessed silence reigned.

"Fenton?" Boomer said softly. "Continue."

"Of the missing memory sets, all of them were logged as recovered," Fenton said nervously. "However, all of their recovery acknowledgements came from Final Five ships." A general feeling of relief swept through the Cylon network. There were significant exceptions though, Boomer noted. "In addition, we have five hundred and twenty three sets of memories that don't belong to any of us," Fenton added. "Their ID codes mark them as mostly Nines and Tens."

"That's good," Leoben said, relieved. "That's good, right?"

"We could set up a… a prisoner exchange, right?" Shelley added, also relieved. "People do that during wars right? Right?"

"No, we can't," Cavil whispered. Of those present, only he and Doral were the only ones who didn't look relieved to hear that a good chunk of their brothers and sisters hadn't been lost beyond recovery. In fact, they looked down right nauseated.

"Really, Cavil?" Boomer asked loudly. She had been waiting for a slip like this. "Why can't we?"

"What?" Cavil said startled. "I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did," Eight said. "I heard you. You said we can't trade with the Five to get our brothers and sisters back. Why not?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Cavil said half-heartedly.

"Yes, you do," Boomer said with complete certainty. "You and Doral here were around when the Five left us to begin with. You know – not just heard rumors, KNOW – why the Five originally left us. You knew what they were like when we first set foot on New Saint Andrews. You knew enough about Nines to be scared about getting in a bus that one of them was driving! And now we're at war with the Frakking Five. We can't afford denial and willful ignorance anymore. Now tell us what you know!"

Cavil and Doral looked at each other.

"You can't tell them!" Doral pleaded. "You just can't…"

BOOM!

Doral collapsed to the floor, dead again. The resurrection net chimed receipt.

"Cavil," Boomer said evenly as she holstered her gun. She was wearing it openly on her hip these days. "I'm waiting."

Cavil slumped in misery and began speaking.

**Basestar  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

God, it felt wonderful to immerse herself into the Five's network. It had been ages since Athena had last "net surfed" as Twelve had put it. Before coming across the Five, linking into a network meant giving away her position to her sisters. Given that Athena was a hunted traitor, linking up would have been a bad idea. She missed this.

And given the choice between networking and her family, Athena would choose her family again with no hesitation at all.

Still, it wasn't good as it could be. The Eight subnet was… silent. Of course it was, Athena told herself. She was the only Eight connected to it. There were also a number of firewalls set up around her virtual self. The combination of silence gave Athena mixed, simultaneous feelings of being squeezed in and of a ball bearing rattling around inside a very large can.

Aha! There was the translation matrix. It was… huge. Cautiously, Athena examined it for anything that resembled a virus or hidden command. She couldn't find any, but she had learned why the matrix was so big.

The dialect of the Standard spoken by the Thirteenth Colony had drifted enormously from the Colonial version, so much so that it had split into dozens of… "languages" was the Earth word for it. Each language was likened to a completely separate computer code as different as the computer codes used by the Colonials before and after the Cylon rebellion; the Colonials had to basically reinvent computer technology from scratch after the Cylons rebelled and the new code still wasn't as sophisticated as the pre-rebellion code.

The Inner Sphere had hundreds of languages, a mind boggling figure to Athena. The translation matrix only had the six most important ones, two of which were completely unrelated to Colonial Standard at all. Luckily, the most dominant language, English, was related to Colonial Standard. But it was a complete oddball from the others, both in grammar and vocabulary. The grammar was… incredibly sloppy, but it had the advantage that you could convey a huge amount of meaning with only a few words if you didn't mind sounding like an idiot to fluent speakers. The vocabulary… The Five had inserted a joke about English mugging other languages for words; it was a quote of some sort from someone named Franklin.

"This is odd," Caprica Six murmured, breaking Athena's concentration.

"I take it you've checked out the translation matrix?" Athena asked dryly.

"What? No, I haven't yet," Six replied. "I was referring to the way Five stored the memories of the other Sixes. They're all… jumbled. It would take a little work to sort them all out by individuals, but why didn't the Five's resurrection net sort them out automatically?"

Athena did a quick check. "Huh," Athena said, puzzled. "The Eights' memories are all jumbled together too." She looked around and spotted Ten. He was still in armor nearby talking with one of the marines, Grif. They were apparently exchanging jokes and gripes about military life. "Hey, Ten! Can we ask you a question?"

"So what can I do for you two lovely ladies?" Ten asked.

"We're wondering why all the memory files have been lumped together," Athena told him. "Doesn't that make it harder to resurrect than it needs to be?"

"Not really," Ten said with a shrug. "We don't bother to resurrect."


	29. Episode 28: Cylonology 101

**Fifth Column  
Episode 28: Cylonology 101**

**22 March 3060  
Basestar  
New Saint Andrews System  
Cylon Protectorate**

"You don't resurrect?" Caprica Six said in disbelief.

"That's what I said," Ten replied, nonchalant. He looked puzzled by Six's and Athena's shocked reactions. "Why? What's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" Six said. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to restrain the urge to throttle the normally friendly Cylon. Of course, it helped that his armor could squish her in an instant. "The problem is that you consign your brothers and sisters souls to being boxed for no reason?"

"Souls?" Ten said. He seemed bemused by the visitor's agitation. "We don't have their souls."

"But… but you have their memories right?" Athena broke in. "You've got to; otherwise you couldn't have picked up the memories of the SS that had dies in battle against you."

"Oh, that," Ten said with dawning realization. It seemed he finally understood where they were coming from. "The memory net picks up memories and only memories. They don't pick up souls and they never have. Souls go to God and no technology we – or you for that matter – have can alter that. You cannot bring back those who died."

"But we… I mean the SS resurrect themselves all the time," Six argued.

"No, they don't," Ten disagreed. "From what I understand, they pick up a guy's memories, stuff them into an empty body, and then slap on the old guy's ID code on him. So they've made a copy, big deal. A copy isn't the original no matter how much alike they might be. Any continuity between the two is a delusion."

"But they'd be the same," Six said desperately. "If they're exactly alike at the moment of transition, wouldn't they be the same person?"

"If we Xeroxed a hundred copies of you and tagged all the copies with the same ID code," Ten replied, "would they also be you? Would you be sharing your soul with a hundred other Sixes?"

"Xeroxed?" Six said confused.

"Earth word," Athena explained quickly. "It's a synonym for 'copy'."

"The point is, we believe every body has its own soul," Ten continued, ignoring the byplay. "When we die… well, we have some interesting debates on what happens to our souls when we die. Me personally, I think our souls go to God for judgment. But what we all agree on is that the soul doesn't get transferred to a new body. And in that case, is it right for us to saddle a new soul with all the troubles and sins of another guy's soul? We don't think so."

**24 March 3060  
Basestar  
New Caprica space  
Cylon Empire**

Boomer lay on the bed of her quarters. Even though she had sworn off using projection for anything other than functional purposes, Boomer had turned the wall opposite the foot of her bed into a virtual window. The blue and green and white globe of New Caprica was currently displayed in the window.

"I heard you shot Doral again."

Boomer turned her head and spotted Fenton diffidently standing at the entrance.

"It was an exercise in stress relief," Boomer told him. "And he pissed me off again by being willfully stupid."

"Yes, well as the new representative for the model Fives," Fenton said nervously. Maybe he thought Boomer was going to shoot him too. "I have to officially ask you to stop shooting Doral. It's making everyone nervous, especially since everyone got access to the locked files on the Final Five."

Oh yes, that. The revelation that the Final Five didn't believe in resurrection had been a bombshell. While the vast majority of Cylons claimed they didn't agree with the Final Five, that their souls were resurrected in new bodies, Boomer had detected a strong undercurrent of doubt running through the networks.

In addition to that, the fact that older Cylons like Doral and Cavil had known all about it all along had served to create the first serious division in modern memory. All the older Cylons, a good twenty percent of the population, had suddenly become social pariahs. And it was only by Boomer's veto that they hadn't all been outright boxed. Her argument had been they couldn't afford such losses right now.

It was so nice to have scapegoats, Boomer reflected. Especially since their continued existence depended more or less on her personal good will.

Boomer was slowly getting reports that the same social changes were happening as the news filtered up the chain of outposts back to the home territories. That was good. By next month or two, Boomer figured that she'd have her entire half of the Cylon race eating out of her hand.

"And what's your unofficial position?" Boomer asked.

"I couldn't care less about Doral," Fenton replied. "But the resources we're using to resurrect him over and over again could be put to better use elsewhere. So it really would be better to either stop shooting him or just leave him boxed."

Boomer laughed. Fenton really was an accountant.

"No," Boomer finally said. "No more boxing. That crap has already caused us more than enough trouble."

"You might want to reconsider," a Four said as breezed into Boomer's quarters. "Punishment has always been a means of social control. Threat of boxing miscreants can be useful."

"Who…" Boomer blinked. Every Four that Boomer had seen had always been slovenly dressed. Leoben Conoy was a premier example of the type. This Four on the other hand was neat and tidy, even going so far to wear a business suit. He was also a Sleeper like Boomer and Fenton.

"This is…" Fenton began.

"Bolivar Trask, sociologist," the Four interrupted. He extended a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"Um, thanks," Boomer said as she sat up on the edge of her bed and shook his hand. "Sociologist?"

"I was a student at Picon University," Bolivar said with a shrug. "When the attack came, I had been on Sagitarron doing a thesis paper." He got a wistful look. "It would have been big, sure to set off a political firestorm."

"What was it about?" Fenton asked.

"I was going to argue that Sagitarron was socially and economically worse off than it had been before the Cylons rebelled," Bolivar replied. "Before when the Colonies were all independent, the Sagitarron government could theoretically play the more powerful Colonies off each other. Afterwards, there were no other…"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," Boomer interrupted. "So what brings you to my humble little abode today?"

"Oh, it's simple really," Bolivar told her. "I know what you're doing, and I want to help."

"And what am I doing?" Boomer asked.

"You're playing Caesar."

"Caesar?" Boomer asked, not sure where he was going with this. "Isn't he from an old fairy tale?"

"It's very old," Bolivar agreed. "In fact, it's so old that many people think… thought that it predates the exodus from Kobol. If you strip off all the flowery language and ignore the watered down modern versions, you'll find the gist of the tale is that Caesar was a successful general of a democratic republic. He was so popular that he became dictator. But some of the people didn't like the changes Caesar instituted and killed him. Depending on the version, Caesar was either a tragic hero or a villainous genius."

"Okay. What's this have to do with me?" Boomer asked cautiously.

"The Caesar effect has happened a few times since the Twelve Colonies were settled," Bolivar continued. "Every time, there was a crisis. The sitting democratic government dropped the ball. A strong leader leaps to the forefront claiming that they can solve all the Colony's problems if the Colony just does what he says." Bolivar paused.

"I don't get it," Fenton said, honestly not following where this was going.

"Bolivar is saying I'm the latest Caesar wannabe, Fenton," Boomer told her friend. "That is what you're saying, right Bolivar?"

"Yes it is," Bolivar told her. "And I'd like to help you… at least help you to avoid the part where the hopelessly conservative reactionaries kill you."

"Thanks," Boomer told him sardonically. "Although, I had originally started out with the intent to try and turn the Cylons against each other." She grimaced. "I think that worked better than I had intended. Fighting the Final Five wasn't what I had in mind."

"You needn't have bothered trying to tear apart the Cylons," Bolivar told her. "They've been doing that for years."

"Pardon?"

"Well, I didn't know for sure until the I got to see the locked files, but I suspected that Cylon society was falling apart when the Threes got boxed," Bolivar said. "There's a pattern if you know what to look for. The Cylon Empire…"

"Empire?" Fenton asked.

"Yes, we're an empire, a political grouping that spreads itself by conquering foreign territory," Bolivar said, exasperated.

"Quiet, Fenton," Boomer said. "I want to hear this."

"Anyway," Bolivar continued. "The Cylon Empire has been falling apart almost from the start. Ideally, we're a direct participatory democracy where every Cylon lives in harmony. Realistically, every new addition causes disharmony that usually gets solved by throwing one group or another out. Given the mob rule nature of our voting system, virtually any minority is perpetually in danger of being boxed and/or exiled at any time.

"The original 0005 Centurions were obsessed with becoming organic, so they created us. However, conflict arose because the Centurions expected us to behave like them, but our own biological needs and impulses were too different. The conflict climaxed when the Cylons voted nine to four in favor of getting rid of the 0005 Centurions. The dissenting votes belonged to the Ones, Tens, Twelves, and of course, the Centurions. That started a nasty fight that involved lots of shooting and at least one band of Centurions taking off with our one and only Type II Basestar and the first Hybrid.

"The next crisis to hit us Cylons was the split between us and the Final Five," Bolivar continued. "The Resurrection issue was the capstone, but the foundations for that schism were laid years before at the very core of our designs. We tend to be dreamers, concerned with God, philosophy, and the big picture. They tend to be more doers, living more in the here and now and not concerning themselves with the big picture. Of course, there are exceptions. The Ones are intellectuals, but they're with the Five. The Twos are living so much in the here and now that most of them are atheists. And since we had the numbers, we voted the Five out of existence which again led to another fight and another batch of Cylons taking off for parts unknown.

"Crisis number three was the conquest of the Twelve Colonies. That one is still going on… or just ended depending on your point of view, in which case we're at the start of Crisis number four," Bolivar mused. "Crisis three is different from the first two in that it created long term stress, especially at New Caprica when we were trying to live with the humans we had just spent the prior two years terrorizing and trying to kill them. I could have told everyone that we were going about the New Caprica all wrong. We were too heavy handed when we should have been going for a light touch."

"Gee, thanks," Boomer said sourly.

"It wasn't your fault," Bolivar said, shrugging. "You and Caprica Six were only two people fighting against the weight of everyone else's fears and control freak tendencies. In any case, the stress of the occupation highlighted differences between all seven models as we all reacted differently to continuing human resistance."

"I do recall Cavil wishing for the days when getting a consensus was easy," Boomer said thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Bolivar agreed. "And we still haven't gotten the same sense of harmony back that we had before we invaded the Colonies. The models are all still conflicted with each other, but that's taken a back seat to chasing the Colonial refugees and now the war with the Final Five. Had the war not come along, I expected for the Empire to have another schism, perhaps another model line or two to break off. Long term, we would have been reduced to each model wandering alone through the galaxy."

"Now that you mention it, some Basestars have gone rogue when the decision to box the Threes went down," Boomer said. "I suspect that they've been commandeered by surviving Threes."

"Have they? Good for them," Bolivar told her. "But now we come to war and to you."

"Oh good, feed my ego why don't you?" Boomer said deadpan.

"I think I'm more likely to feed your fears," Bolivar replied. "In any case, you've introduced a whole new schism, one that crosses model boundaries. A very large minority – the older Cylons – are now a despised minority. Normally, the Empire would have tried boxing them and then we'd have had yet another fleet of escapees taking off and heading for parts unknown. But you stopped that from happening, at least for now."

"Because I'm the new Caesar," Boomer concluded.

"Yes, because what you do next is going to be critical not just for your survival, but for the Empire's very existence," Bolivar explained. He grinned. "So, would the Imperious Leader like to hear what I have in mind?"


	30. Episode 29: Spherical Disruption

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 29: Spherical Disruption**

**23 March 3060  
****Comstar Headquarters  
****Tukayyid  
****Free Rasalhague Republic**

Precentor Martial Anastasius Focht, official head of the ComGuards and de facto leader of Comstar, sipped his morning coffee as he read yet another report. For once, the Inner Sphere was quiet. Even the former Smoke Jaguar Occupation Zone was mostly at peace.

Of course, it was the peace of everyone holding their breath. Victor Steiner-Davion, ruler of the Federated Commonwealth, was leading the bulk of the bulk of the new Star League Army off to the far distant Clan home worlds to complete the destruction of Clan Smoke Jaguar and hopefully impress the remaining Clans enough to end their invasion of the Inner Sphere. And given that the new Star League Army was made up of elite units from every Great House, no House Lord wanted to do anything that might make a victorious Star League army… annoyed. At least, none of them were going to do anything until they got their elite units back anyway.

That was assuming Victor was successful. If he failed, then the House Lords were going to desperately need their remaining military might to fend off the Clan juggernaut.

Still, the speed at which Clan Smoke Jaguar's occupation forces had collapsed last year had made people optimistic. If nothing else, there would be one less Clan one way or the other.

One way or the other, Focht expected no word of the results one way or the other until at least the end of the year. It was a long way to Clan space. Despite having left last August, Victor and the Star League army should only just now be arriving there…

Focht's musings were interrupted by a ping. He raised an eyebrow when he saw that he had received an email marked as highest priority for his eyes only. That meant it had arrived as fast as the relaying HPG stations could transmit and that only the sender and recipient were supposed to read its contents.

Focht concern increased when he saw that the message was from Precentor Natalia Croft on the Lyran Alliance world of Halifax. Croft was in charge of the Explorer Corps' anti-spinward operations. Since the discovery of the Clan home worlds, the Corps had been gradually shifting its operations to Croft's bailiwick. The purpose had been to locate all the worlds of the Cylon Protectorate and eventually the Twelve Colonies they had originated from.

This was because the parallels between the Cylons and the Clans had drawn a great deal of paranoia from various people in power. Like the Clans, the Cylons too had appeared out of nowhere. Unlike the Clans, the Cylons had been content to remain on the Periphery of the Inner Sphere. But the fact that they had a fleet of warships had by itself been enough to warrant serious investigation.

Taking another sip of his coffee, Focht opened the message. Two minutes later, he was cleaning coffee off his monitor.

**23 March 3060  
****Rising Star  
****Colonial Fleet  
****New Saint Andrews System**

"Mister Vice President, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Quorum," President Roslin said, starting the meeting. Unlike previous meetings, this was a closed session with the press kept out. They were in what had once been a private dining room on the Rising Star, seated at a long dinner table. "We have a problem."

This caused a slight stir. There was a euphoric air in the Fleet. For the first time in years, everyone was getting decent meals. Their hated enemies the Cylons had been driven off in humiliating defeat, meaning that they were safe from attack… at least for now. However, a lot of people had issues with who had done the driving off, namely other Cylons.

"Are the Cylons having second thoughts about us?" Tom Zarek, Roslin's Vice President, asked. It was a reasonable question. The Final Five hadn't liked the Colonials to begin with.

"Fortunately, no," Roslin replied. "Or rather, we've had no indication of such. No, our problem is the Thirteenth Colony."

The men and women assembled around the dinner table looked at each other in consternation.

"Madame President, I've heard the outrageous rumor that the Thirteenth Colony has thousands of daughter colonies," Sarah Porter, the Gemenon delegate said. "Will they not allow us to settle on a world?"

"Actually, we've been talking with the commander of the Earth ship using our own translator," Roslin replied. Everyone knew that meant one of the Cylons that had defected to the Colonials. "There's no problem with us settling a world. The problem ladies and gentlemen is picking which world. The problem is that despite having colonized two thousand plus planets, the Thirteenth's Colony's FTL drive is far inferior to ours. The problem is that the Inner Sphere is divided up into a dozen independent and sovereign nations governed by non-democratic, aristocratic 'Houses' that have been at war with each other for the past three hundred years. The problem is that if we settle a world belonging to any one House, the others will almost certainly attack us in order to get our FTL drive technology."

"Wait a minute," said Marshall Bagot, the Virgon delegate. "Most of this information comes from the Cylons, right?"

"Yes…"

"Then it's obvious!" Bagot said triumphantly. "The Cylons must be lying!"

Roslin sighed. This was going to be a very long meeting.

**23 March 3060  
****Unity Palace  
****Imperial City  
****Luthien  
****Draconis Combine**

"Komban-wa, Coordinator-sama. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Not at all, Mister… ah, One," replied Theodore Kurita, head of House Kurita and Coordinator of the Draconis Combine. "My generals tell me that your Fighting Fivers regiment has served my nation well during the recent action against Smoke Jaguar. I trust their current garrison duty is not too onerous?"

"We have managed to restrain the Nines from doing anything too outrageous," One replied. "If anything, their adoption of Kuritan courtesies and customs seems to have made them more manageable." He let out a long suffering sigh. "It's a pity that it is only a passing fad among them."

"My condolences to your nerves, Mister One," Theodore offered with good humor. "What brings you to the Imperial Palace today?"

"I'm afraid that I am bearer of bad news, Coordinator-sama," One told him. "The Cylon Protectorate is at war. All our military units operating in the Inner Sphere are being recalled. Per our paragraph nine subsection b; I am giving you the required two weeks' notice before the Fighting Fivers pull out."

"That is bad news," Theodore said gravely. "Tell me, One-sama: who would be so foolish as to wage war against a nation that everyone knows has more warships than worlds?"

"That, Coordinator-sama, is the problem," One said sadly. "Our enemies are Cylons also. The Protectorate is at war with those we had left behind."

**26 March 3060  
****Tharkad City  
****Tharkad  
****Lyran Alliance**

"Dear God…"

"How bad is it, Aunt Nondi?"

Katherine Steiner-Davion was the Archon of the Lyran Alliance and nominal head of House Steiner. For political reasons, she went by her maiden grandmother's name of "Katrina Steiner", ignoring the Davion half of her heritage. She was a politician at heart and her political career had been going along splendidly. Or it had been until Comstar dropped this little bomb in her lap. As if the Clans or her brother weren't enough, now she had this new threat along her almost unguarded Periphery border. And being a politician, Katherine had no idea how to evaluate a military threat, but that was why she had generals like her aunt.

Judging by General Nondi Steiner's reaction, the evaluation was very bad.

"Your highness, I'm no naval expert, but if this isn't some holovid story, then we are in big trouble," Nondi replied, shaken. "The most obvious thing to me is that these Cylons have a far better KF drive than anyone else in the Inner Sphere or the Clans. They actually managed to cram one into a light fighter for God's sake and still have it mount a decent weapons load. And then there's the fact that they can just ignore jump points and jump a ship directly into orbit."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means that if the Cylons had wanted to, they could have rolled right over us and destroyed our entire aerospace capacity in just a few months," Nondi said grimly.

"What?" Katherine said, startled. "But I've always heard that the Cylons had inferior weapons and armor."

"They still do, your highness," Nondi replied. "But what they do have is superior weapon platforms with greater strategic mobility. When we assault a world, we have to use jump points. That gives the defender days' worth of warning, or just minutes or hours at most if a pirate point is used. With the Cylons' drives, a defender would have almost no warning at all. We could be under attack before we even knew they were there."

"How can we defend ourselves against it?"

"We need to increase our aerospace assets by several orders of magnitude," Nondi suggested. "We also need to get our hands on this technology, preferably before any other House can." There was of course no need to specify which other House in particular.

"We might have a lucky break there," Katherine said thoughtfully with a smile. "Apparently there's a fleet of refugees from the Cylons' home worlds and they have the same kind of KF drive. Comstar's initial reports suggest that they don't want to live in the Protectorate. Perhaps we can offer them refuge."

"And if they go somewhere else?" Nondi asked.

"Well, then, we'll just have to acquire this new technology in a more… traditional fashion," Katherine told her.

"Of course, your highness," Nondi said, nodding. "At least there's one bright side here."

"What's that?"

"The Protectorate may have been acquiring our weapons technology for the past ten years or so," Nondi answered, "but at least they haven't passed on any of it to their allegedly genocidal cousins."

**28 March 3060  
****Atreus City  
****Atreus  
****Free Worlds League**

"SHE DID WHAT??" roared Thomas Marik, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League.

Duke Paul Marik, Minister of Intelligence, winced at the volume of sound his older brother put out.

"Precentor Winn of the Word of Blake gave a copy of the Helm Memory Core to these new Cylons," Paul repeated. "As we speak, they're probably deciphering the contents right now."

"Why the hell did she do something like that?" Thomas demanded. "It goes against everything the Word of Blake believes in."

"My contact said she claimed that she had been visited by the Ghost of Jerome Blake and told to do so," Paul explained.

"That's just fantastic," Thomas said disgustedly. "She just gave the key to building modern weaponry to a bunch of lunatics who aren't above bombarding planets with nukes."

"Er, Thomas," Paul said diffidently. "The bombardment of New Saint Andrews didn't use nukes and only happened because the surface installation fired up at them."

"I'm not talking about New Saint Andrews," Thomas growled. "I'm talking about the story these so called Colonials are telling. Apparently, these new Cylons are above using nukes and other weapons of mass destruction en masse to get their way." Thomas Marik shook his head. "I'm glad we don't have anyone like that here in the Inner Sphere."

"I whole heartedly agree, Thomas."

"Good, now have these Colonials responded to our offer yet?"

**29 March 3060  
****Star League Expedition  
****Operation Bulldog  
****Near Clan Space**

Victor Steiner-Davion watched as a Star Lord class Jumpship docked with the pyramidal Basestar for refueling and recharging. The jump capable station had been a boon on the long journey from the Inner Sphere. In addition to the fuel and supplies, the Cylon basestar had also supplied food stuffs that were a substantial cut above standard Jumpship fare. In addition to hydroponically grown fruits and vegetables, there was the cloned beef and chicken and what they said was raptor from Hunter's Paradise; it still tasted like chicken.

Studying the Basestar, Victor again noted the lack of any exhaust plume that would have marked a station keeping drive. But given the Basestar's ability to resist the local star's gravitational pull, it had SOME kind of station keeping ability. Victor wondered what other technological secrets the Cylons had up their sleeves. He was almost certain the Cylons hadn't given everything away.

But his curiosity could wait. They'd be jumping tomorrow into the Huntress system, home of Clan Smoke Jaguar. Then after that, it was on to Strana Mechty to convince the rest of the Clans via trial by combat to stop the invasion of the Inner Sphere. And after that, Victor had to head home and somehow deal with his ambitious, conniving backstabber of a sister, deal with a thousand other political issues, and somehow finagle a dalliance with the daughter of the man who ran the nation that was traditionally Victor's nation's greatest enemy.

Given all that, Victor was grateful that the Cylons had never caused anyone any trouble.


	31. Episode 30: The Trial

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 30: The Trial**

**24 April 3060  
****Star League LZ  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"Hi! I'm Nine!"

"And I'm Nine!"

"And welcome to the first ever Snow Raven/Cylon Trial of Possession!" the two of them chorused.

"I can't believe this is happening," Victor Steiner-Davion growled, glaring at the holovid projection. The Cylons were openly broadcasting to everyone in the system. "Dammit! We just won a Trial of Refusal yesterday. Isn't there a way to put a stop to this?"

A Trial was basically a Clan term for trial by combat. A Trial of Refusal is fought when one party disagreed with a policy decision and wanted to overturn it by force of arms. In this case, the policy being overturned was the Clan's invasion of the Inner Sphere. The Warden Clans, the ones who opposed the invasion, had bowed out and left the ones who supported the invasion, the Crusader Clans, to fight the Inner Sphere on their own. Since this was ritualized combat, both sides had met with roughly equal forces and most of the Crusaders had lost. For most of the Clans, the invasion was off.

And now this had come up just as things were settling down.

"Not that I can see, you highness," replied Sir Paul Masters, the newly appointed Star League's liaison. "Clan Snow Raven is a Warden Clan, meaning they didn't participate in the Trial of Refusal. This Trial of Possession was independently negotiated between the Snow Raven Khans and the Cylons. As for the Cylons, my understanding is that they're not actually Star League members, they weren't hired as mercenaries and they technically haven't agreed to follow your orders. I suppose they'd stop if you ordered them to, your highness, but the Snow Ravens…"

"Might take issue and start an even bigger fight than this," Victor finished for him. He glared at the projection as the Nines explained the terms of the Trial. "Well, at least they limited themselves to a single fighter each."

**28 March 3060  
****Pilot's Ready Room  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Okay people, listen up," said Captain Karl Agathon to the assembled pilots. Everyone called him by his callsign Helo. Since Lee Adama's resignation, he was the most senior pilot left in the Colonial Fleet, making him the CAG. "You've all heard the rumors. The SS Cylons have been driven off. We've found the Thirteenth Colony. Happy times are here again! Unfortunately, it turns out that our luck isn't quite that good.

"As you've no doubt heard," Helo continued, "the Thirteenth Colony is divided up into independent nations, some of which have dozens, even hundreds of inhabited planets. What that means for us is that if we settle in any one of them, we will almost certainly be raided by the others looking to steal some of our advanced FTL and artificial gravity technology. Likewise, we're also likely to get raided if we settle on some world not belonging to any of them. Now, you've no doubt heard rumors of a deal to keep that from happening, but that's the politicians' bailiwick. Our job is to defend the Fleet in the event that we do get attacked. However, there's a problem. Sharon?"

"You've all seen the Protectorate's Super Raiders in action," his wife began. "By our standards, it's a super heavy fighter that's way over-gunned and armored to near invulnerability but still able to maintain a decent amount of acceleration for its mass. By Thirteenth Colony standards however, the Super Raider is a middle weight design, slightly under-gunned, and doesn't even mount the most advanced weapons technologies available."

Athena paused to let that sink in. She could see more than a few looks of disbelief and denial on the faces of more than a few pilots. The Protectorate's Raiders – both the upgraded Type I Raiders and the Super Raiders – had looked plenty advanced to the Colonials. Athena had thought so too until she had read about what the Protectorate _didn't_ have.

"Even the lightest fighters fielded by any Inner Sphere military are twice as heavy as any Viper, but still maintain similar acceleration profiles. Yet they still outgun us and mount armor heavy enough to require sustained fire from our weapons to penetrate," Athena went on. "And according to the Protectorate, the Inner Sphere fighters aren't even the most advanced available.

"Let me tell you about the Clans."

**24 April 3060  
****The Snow Raven  
****High Orbit  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"Nine, who are our contestants today?"

"In the Cylon corner, we have Nine piloting our latest Raider design," the other commentator said. "By any standards, these Raiders are well armored for their fifty tons and has a decent max acceleration at five and a half gees, yet still manages to have room left over for twenty point five tons of pod space. Nine, what load out do you think Nine picked for…"

"Pod space? POD SPACE?" shouted saKhan Bryn Cooper in outrage. "Honorless dogs! They made no mention that their fighter had Omni technology!"

"Did you ask them?" Khan Lynn McKenna asked pointedly. The two of them led Clan Snow Raven with McKenna having seniority. She regarded Cooper as an able and efficient deputy, but his paranoia could be wearing at times.

"That is not the point!" Cooper huffed.

McKenna rolled her eyes at Cooper's antics. It was a good thing she was watching the monitors and facing away from him when she did, McKenna reflected. Otherwise he might actually have challenged her to a Trial of Grievance.

"…comes the Snow Raven challenger now," one of the clones was saying. What did that make then? McKenna idly wondered. The Cylons certainly weren't free born, humans conceived and born naturally. And a great many Clansmen argued against applying the term 'true born' – humans born in birthing canisters - to the Cylons was equally inappropriate. "Nine, it looks like he's picked a thirty five ton Avar as his ride."

"An Avar?" the other clone scoffed. "Oh c'mon! That's hardly a challenge!"

"Now, now, Nine, don't be that way," the first Nine chided. "Clan tech is the best stuff around. That Avar can pack as much fire power as our Raider AND it's fifty per cent faster to boot."

"Big deal!" the second Nine argued. "The Avar has less armor despite using advanced ferro-aluminum composites and everyone knows that Clan pilots suck compared to Inner Sphere pilots."

"Why of all the insulting, disrespectful…" Cooper began.

"Actually, everyone knows that the pilots of the INVADING Clans suck," the first Nine said. "The Snow Ravens are one of the stay at home Clans. And unlike any of the Invading Clans, their strength is in aerospace assets, not ground forces. So I wouldn't count out the Snow Raven pilot just yet."

"My, how gracious of them," McKenna said dryly.

**28 March 3060  
****Pilot's Ready Room  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Three hundred years ago," Athena went on. "The central government of the Inner Sphere, the Star League, collapsed into civil war. Rather than take pick sides and take part in the fighting, the Star League Army voluntarily packed up and went on their own little Exodus and colonized a bunch of worlds far away from the Inner Sphere. There, they created a highly aggressive, military society called the Clans.

"The Clans focused on perfecting their military machines. They created improved versions of Star League era weaponry. They used genetic engineering to literally breed their soldiers for combat. Then ten years ago, they came back to the Inner Sphere with the intent to conquer it."

Athena smiled ruefully. "Basically, the Clans are the manifestation of every fear and nightmare the SS Cylons had ever had about us."

**24 April 3060  
****Circle of Equals  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

Star Captain Reginald Shu was a member of saKhan Bryn Cooper's personal touman. Among other things, that meant he was considered among the best that Clan Snow Raven had to offer. He had won the honor of representing his Clan by outbidding his fellow pilots, saying that he could defeat the Cylon's champion with the less force than any of his fellows.

Others had advised caution and warned not to underestimate Inner Sphere pilots. After all, the so-called Star League had just yesterday defeated most of the Crusader Clans in honorable open combat.

Reginald just laughed and pointed out that this "Cylon Protectorate" wasn't a proper Inner Sphere nation to begin with. According to reports, they could only build the most basic weapons and technologies of war. The only reason they were with the Inner Sphere forces at all was that they could build those "Basestars".

The Basestar was certainly impressive in size. Not only that, it could somehow produce station-keeping accelerations without using any kind of reaction based drive. At first, saKhan Bryn had challenged to a Trial of Possession for the Basestar. The Cylons had demurred, saying that they would defend their Basestar with the Basestar, probably resulting in its probable destruction. The bargaining had eventually settled on the technology of their mysterious gravity-defying drive as the prize if Reginald won. If the Cylons won, they would get the knowledge of how to actually build Clan weaponry.

It was a major gamble on saKhan Bryn's part. Rumor had it that Khan Lynn had almost challenged Bryn to a Trial of Grievance when she had gotten word. But if Reginald won, he and by extension his saKhan would be covered in glory.

There was a ping and a status light on his HUD changed from red to amber as he entered the boundaries of the "Circle" or Equals. As they were in space, the Circle was more of a sphere with a diameter of five hundred kilometers defined by a shell of pre-placed drones. A combatant who left the Circle while combat was in progress would automatically forfeit the trial.

"Hi! I'm Nine!" the other pilot broadcasted. The voice was cheerful and friendly and utterly without the arrogance or blustering Reginald would have expected from Clan pilots. "And who's my dance partner today?"

"I am Star Captain Reginald Shu," Reginald replied. "Who am I addressing?"

"I'm… Nine," the Cylon pilot said, sounding confused. Reginald wondered why, then remembered that Cylons didn't have individual names. He snorted in contempt. It was a wonder that they could tell each other apart.

"Well then… Nine," Reginald said, slightly tripping over the use of a number as a name. "Are you prepared for battle?" he asked with a sneer as he reoriented his Avar so that it was pointed nose first at the Cylon Raider on the other side of the Circle. That was another thing: why did the Cylons call all their fighter designs 'Raiders'? It was… annoying.

"Oh please, I was made ready!" Nine boasted.

"Then have at thee!" Reginald cried as he rammed his Avar into max acceleration.

"Wheeeee!" Nine replied as she did the same an instant later. That impressed Reginald despite himself. If Nine had been surprised, she gave no hint of it and had supremely quick reflexes besides.

But that would not help her. As they charged at each other head to head, Reginald locked on to the Raider and readied to fire his Large Heavy Laser. Normally, an Avar of this configuration would mount an Extended Range Large Laser. But for this fight, damage not range would be the true factor in determining the victor and a Heavy laser did sixty percent more damage than its ER counterpart. Even in a sphere five hundred kilometers wide, there simply was no way to hold the range open without running into the boundaries of the sphere.

Reginald preferred close in dog fights anyway.

The instant he was in range, Reginald triggered the heavy laser, hitting the Raider's fuselage. A layer of armor was blasted off, dissipating the energy as designed. There was no penetration, but Reginald didn't expect one on the first shot. Seconds later, he triggered his three medium pulse lasers and the Streak missile launcher. The accurate lasers sprayed over the Raider's broad wings, blasting off more layers of armor. The missiles locked on and fired, but were all summarily blasted out of the sky by the Raider's antimissile system.

In return, Reginald's Avar was sandblasted by a class twenty LB-X autocannon. LB-X autocannons could fire "cluster" rounds which were large masses of submunitions akin to large shotgun pellets. Each submunition by itself did little damage, but there were so many in this one blast that they were sure to hit something vital. And they did; a multitude of angry red lights lit Reginald's status board including his two pulse lasers on the wings.

Reginald pulled on the stick, frantically spinning to keep the Raider in his sights as they passed each other at high speed scant meters from each other. Reginald was close enough to actually see the Cylon's face when they both fired again with everything they had left.

The range was ridiculously low for their weaponry. Reginald's remaining lasers again blasted into the Raider's fuselage and again there was no penetration. More missiles destroyed practically right out of their launch tubes, but one struck as the Cylon's anti-missile system ran out of ammo.

In return, two lasers burned into Reginald's wings and he took the brunt of an entire cluster round on the nose of his Avar. Over half of his nose armor was ground off. The heavy laser and missile launcher were smashed into ruin. Even his cockpit glass filled with spider web cracks. And his sensors must have taken a hit too because his radar was filled with garbage. Surprisingly, Reginald still had a fully functional pulse laser, but he could barely see!

Reginald didn't let that stop him as he snapped off another shot before their mutual vectors carried each other out of range. He missed as Nine rapidly decelerated using her main engines and fired back. This time, the round was solid shot; the round barely missed Reginald's Avar's nose and crunched into his left wing, throwing Reginald into a spin.

**24 April 3060  
****Protectorate Basestar  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"Ooh, it looks like poor Reggie's in trouble, Nine."

"Don't count him out just yet, Nine. Nine's take quite a few hits on her fuselage. Her armor has got to be paper thin there now."

"So she's lost a little armor. So what? Reginald's Avar can barely… Hey! Who's that?"

**24 April 3060  
****Circle of Equals  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

As Reginald struggled to regain control of his fighter, he saw two flashes of light characteristic of Cylon KF drives and two strange fighters with scimitar shaped wings seemed to lunge out at him. The intruders hesitated for a few seconds then dived at Reginald with guns blazing.

"Stravag!" Reginald cursed as he pulled the best evasive he could. He took several hits, but these new intruders' guns could do pitifully little damage even to the mangled Avar. "Honorless dogs!" he spat as he spun his Avar to attack.

Before he could fire, Reginald's target exploded as it was savaged by paired lasers. The next instant, a cloud of LB-X cluster munitions punched uselessly through the fireball. And then Nine's Raider was there, rapidly pivoting to bring the surviving intruder under fire. Rather than face such mighty wrath, the intruder took the coward's way and jumped out.

Angry and frustrated, by the cowardly attacker – and not just a little surprised by fighters with jump capability – Reginald expressed his feelings on the only available target. Later, Reginald would be ashamed of himself, but right now Nine had placed herself perfectly in his sights.

Reginald's remaining pulse laser burned away what was left of her fuselage armor and speared the Raider's fusion engine dead on.


	32. Episode 31: Nine Lives

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 31: Nine Lives**

**31 March 3060  
****Basestar  
****New Caprica  
****Cylon Empire**

As Boomer watched, the Protectorate Battlestar and its escorts of four Type II Basestars jumped in at a range of about twelve hundred miles from the two Empire Basestars in low orbit of New Caprica. Both sides opened fire and launched fighters.

"None of the missiles from either side are getting through," Shelley noted.

"That's only to be expected at that range," Cavil said. "And those damned energy beams are hitting our Basestars."

"Hmm… you'll notice that the Five's energy weaponry is missing as often as hitting at this range," Boomer said. "They're also not targeting any specific systems. Our Basestars can stand up to a bombardment like that, at least for a little while. But we're still going to need some way to effectively fire back. Fenton, what's the launcher count?"

"We've got what looks like a hard count of twelve capital missile launchers on the Battlestar," Fenton reported. "It's not much, but I suppose they had to make room for all those ray guns. The Type II Basestars also have twelve capital missile launchers, but don't have the ray guns. That's assuming the Five aren't holding back, of course."

"Fighters are almost in missile range of each other," Leoben announced.

Boomer's attention shifted to the enemy fighters. Leading the strike were the four hundred Super Raiders. The Battlestar had launched two hundred of those. The Type II Basestars had launched fifty each along with another fifty Type I Raiders. The Type I Raiders had been held back to guard the ships. The Super Raiders also looked different than the ones that had been used at New Saint Andrews.

"The Super Raiders appear to be in limited supply," Boomer said out loud. "And these ones are carrying more missile launchers and smaller main guns." As if to confirm her observation, the Super Raiders threw a veritable wall of missiles at the defenders. Boomer had been waiting for that. "Execute Plan Hermes."

Instantly, seven hundred and thirty nine Raiders – all that remaining Basestars of the former expedition fleet could pool together or manufacture in the time since New Saint Andrews – initiated an FTL jump before the missiles reached them. Three hundred sixty nine of them reappeared in the midst of the Super Raider formation and fired a salvo of four anti-fighter missiles each into their enemies' faces.

The results were disappointing to say the least. The Super Raiders took visible damage and at least three had a wing blown off or otherwise looked like they were crippled. But despite the surprise, the Cylon pilots fought back and even damaged, Boomer's Type II Raiders could inflict little damage on their battered opponents with the guns they had left. Thirty seconds after the first missile had fired, the Super Raiders were alone. Most returned to their attack run on Boomer's Basestars, but a couple dozen were sufficiently damaged to turn around and head back toward their own Basestars.

Meanwhile, Boomer's other seven hundred and seventy Type II Raiders materialized behind the Five's Basestars and none of the Five's Type I Raiders were in any position to intercept. But as the Raiders started their own attack run on the enemy Basestars, the Basestars opened up with a truly lavish display of energy, missile, and ballistic weapons fire that annihilated them all before they could launch more than a few missiles, all of which were themselves blasted away by point defense.

"Well, I guess now we know why their Basestars are light on offensive weaponry," Boomer observed. "Okay, I think we've seen enough. The Basestars can retreat now." Instantly, the two Basestars defending New Caprica vanished from sight. "Give them my tanks for a job well done. Fenton? How many Raiders did we lose?"

"All of them," Fenton sighed. "It looks like even their fighters are carrying limited versions of the Resurrection Net and they downloaded the Raiders instead of us."

"Isn't there any way to stop that?" Boomer asked.

"No. Unfortunately, the problem is at the very foundation of the resurrection system," Simon said. Over the past few days, the Sevens like Simons had proven surprisingly adept at research and development, at least once they stopped devoting all their brainpower to trying to decipher God's will and got down to actually thinking about an issue. "While we could reconfigure to give off a unique IFF from the Five's net fairly easily, reconfiguring ourselves to only pick our net is... impossible. It would essentially require rewiring our brains in such a way that our souls would no longer be compatible with them. The new bodies would essentially be a new model of Cylon as far as the Resurrection Net is concerned."

"Okay, I guess that's a nonstarter," Boomer sighed. "What about the reverse engineering? How's that going?"

"The interface-based controls are easy," Cavil said in disgust. "They're so easy in fact, that I'm wondering why we never built anything like it ourselves. I can't begin to tell you how much trouble it would have saved us with the humans if we had made a few guns that only we could use."

"The weapons and armor and these metal muscles are problematical," Simon added. "We can produce limited quantities of some of the materials they're made of in the lab with a lot of time and effort, but we haven't worked out a method of industrial scale production for any of them yet."

"What about the memory core?" Boomer asked. "Any clues in there?"

"Some of the pictures and video is suggestive," Simon told her. "But we still can't read any of the text yet."

"Why not?"

"The Thirteenth Colony's dialect has changed beyond recognition," Leoben answered. "We can translate individual letters and numbers easily enough, but the base dialect is giving us fits. Nouns change into verbs and verbs change into nouns with annoying regularity and the only way to tell the difference appears to be context. Then there are the numbers which make no sense if they mean what we think they mean; some of us think Earth uses an entirely different system of measurement than we do."

"What about the memories of the Five we have?" Boomer asked. "They must have known how to read Earth dialect." The others traded looks as if Boomer had said something very, very stupid. "What?"

"Well, everyone knows what the problem with that is," Doral began.

"No, everyone doesn't know what the problem is," Boomer replied, annoyed. "I don't know what the problem is because I spent the first two years of my life under the delusion that I was a human being!"

"Boomer, the problem is that in order to read raw Cylon memories, we need a live Cylon who happens to be the same model as the memories being read," Shelley explained. "I suppose if you let us question Eleven…"

"Um, no, that won't work either," Fenton interrupted. "The memories we have belong mostly to Nines and Tens. We don't have any Elevens in the Resurrection Net."

"I suppose I could persuade Eleven to formulate a translation program for us," Boomer said thoughtfully. "But how much do any of you trust her not to insert a virus into it? I know I don't and I'm on fairly friendly terms with her."

The others nodded, unwillingly agreeing with Boomer's point.

"The Five have noticed us," an Eight announced as a wave of fighters headed toward where they were hidden in the clouds that surrounded New Caprica.

"Okay, time we were gone too," Boomer said. There was a moment of jump nausea and then their Basestar was surrounded by open starscape with only friendly Basestars near. "Okay, new idea," Boomer said, continuing on despite the interruption. "We have the original specs for the Final Five, right? Couldn't we make a brand new individual to read the memories for us?"

"There's no technical reason why not," Simon said thoughtfully. "It would take us a little while to make the body though…"

"Well I have an objection," Shelley said. At Boomer's hard look – and her fingering the handle of her pistol – she spoke quickly. "As soon as our new pet Fiver reads the captured memories, his loyalty will probably switch over to rest of his kind."

"Yeah, and after New Caprica, we all know how much coercion doesn't work," Cavil added. "I wouldn't trust any of them not to turn on us as soon as they review the memories."

"Well actually…" Doral began.

"No!" Cavil interrupted. "No way! Anything but that!"

**24 April 3060  
****Katyusha City  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

Nine's eyes fluttered open. Then they squeezed shut again. The light in the room seemed intolerably bright. In addition, some jokers were dancing a conga line on the inside of her skull.

"You are awake, aff?" someone asked.

Nine opened her eyes a bit and squinted at the man next to her bed. He was a pretty looking guy, but was all stiff standing ramrod straight in an unfamiliar dress uniform. Idly, Nine thought he needed to relax.

"Yes, I'm awake," Nine replied. The conga line in her head seemed to stomp extra hard with each word, but she forced a sunny smile nonetheless. "Hi! I'm Nine!"

"We have previously met," the man said stiffly. God, he really did need to relax! "I am Star Captain Reginald Shu."

"Oh, right! My dance partner!" Nine said as the memory of the fight bubbled up past the conga line. She paused. "Who won?"

"The Trial was deemed invalid due to outside interference," Reggie said.

"Oh, yeah," Nine said. "Sorry about that."

"What have you to be sorry for?" Reggie asked. He looked uncomfortable. "It is I who should apologize to you. In my anger, I shot you while your back was turned after you came to my aid. You are extremely fortunate to be alive while I… I have dishonored myself and my Clan."

"Yeah, about that," Nine replied. She looked embarrassed. "I think that attack was my fault. When those strange Cylons jumped in, they asked me what was going on and I told them I was fighting you. I think they jumped in with the weird idea that they were 'helping' me and wouldn't stop when I told them to."

"Cylons?" Reggie said. "So those fighters do belong to your people?"

"Nope. We've never seen them before," Nine answered. "But they used Cylon communication protocols." She shrugged. "So about the Trial, since I accidentally called down those two on you, I guess this means I forfeited the match, right?"

"Your brethren may object to that interpretation," Reggie told her. "I understood that they wanted a redo the Trial."

"So screw 'em! Rules are rules," Nine replied stubbornly. "They're how you figure out winners and losers and I lost."

"You have shown superb skill and now you show that you have honor," Reggie told her, "If you insist on giving me victory, then I must insist on taking you as my bondsman. Your life would become very difficult. Are you sure that is what you want to do?"

Nine thought about it. She had read up on Clan customs like every Cylon on this trip. On the one hand, she wouldn't get to fly anymore for a while. On the other, she would get to see first hand something that no Cylon had seen before.

"Yes!"

**25 April 3060  
****Basestar  
****Independent Cylon Fleet  
****Somewhere near the Kerensky Cluster**

"All the scouting patrols have reported back," Three reported.

"Anything of interest?" another Three asked.

"One of our Raiders has intercepted a transmission from home to our pursuers," Three reported. A disgusted expression crossed her face. "The Others are starting to call themselves the 'Cylon Empire' and that new network security protocols are to be implemented to prevent unauthorized models from requesting information."

"That's bad," Three commented, "since WE are one of the unauthorized models."

The other Threes nodded in grudging acknowledgement. A few months ago, the other six models of Cylon had voted to box the entire Three line. It was basically an execution order for every Three in existence simply because one of the Threes had apparently gone on some mad quest to find the Final Five. The Threes had of course objected to such extreme measures and resisted.

These three Basestars were the only ones where the Threes had successfully resisted. Now, they were crewed only by Threes, and they were being hunted like the Colonial refugee fleet. The Threes had managed to stay ahead by reading their persecutor's "mail" as it were.

"That's odd," a different Three added with a frown. "If our pursuers had noticed us eavesdropping on them, I would think new network security protocols would have originated with them, not come from home. What does it mean?"

"Maybe they tried to box another model line and they were more obvious in their resistance," Three said bitterly. "Who cares?"

"I find it disturbing that Cylons are fighting Cylons," one Three said. "That can't be in God's plans."

"The get ready to be more disturbed, sister," a different Three said grimly. "One of our scouting patrols ran into a hostile Cylon Raider ahead of us."

"Our pursuers are ahead of us?" Three said with alarm.

"No, this Raider didn't belong to them. It was being piloted by a Nine," the different Three explained. That brought expressions of surprise. It appeared that D'anna Biers mad quest wasn't quite so mad after all. "It was engaged in combat with a human piloted fighter of unknown type. When our patrol tried to render assistance, the Nine turned on them."

"That… makes no sense." Several other Threes also echoed the sentiment.

"If the Final Five are here and are hostile to us, then we should run," Three said. "Try and get through this area as fast as possible."

"No, we need to investigate this," another Three disagreed. "Look, the human fighter isn't a known model. I think it might belong to the Thirteenth Colony. If the Final Five are fighting the Thirteenth Colony, then Earth may be hostile to us as well."

"No, we took this route to get to reach Earth while avoiding the outposts we… the Empire set up along the Colonial's trail because we wanted to avoid hostile Cylons," Three argued. "Now we've run into more hostile Cylons and we should avoid them too!"

"This hostility might have been a misunderstanding," the other Three said. "And if nothing else, we have no idea where and in what numbers the Final Five are. We need to know that if nothing else."

The opinion of every Three in the fleet was felt. Normally, consensus among a single model was normally easy. After all, they were all copies and they all thought alike. But this time, a full twenty percent of the Threes were against making contact with the Final Five. It was… strange.

**25 April 3060  
****Snow Raven Enclave  
****Strana Mechty  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"So, Doctor Franklin," Khan Lynn McKenna said in greeting. "How is our newest bondsman?"

"Healing quite well, my Khan," replied Doctor Franklin. He was head of Clan Snow Raven's scientist caste. His specialty was genetic engineering of course. "It is not everyday that an aerospace pilot survives their fusion engine exploding."

"I am given to understand that most of the plasma harmlessly vented out into space," Lynn said.

"Yes, quite," Franklin said. "In any case, my Khan, this Nine is a fascinating study from a genetic engineer's standpoint."

"Oh?" Lynn said. "In what way?"

"Please understand that I have only had time to do only the most cursory analysis of her DNA." Franklin said. "But what is evident right from the start is that her DNA was most definitely spliced together. Someone just took what ever genes they wanted and crammed them all together with almost no regard to secondary effects."

"Secondary effects?"

"What I mean is that I couldn't tell how Nine could be alive to begin with," Franklin explained. "Certainly she looks like a healthy human being, but the way her DNA is assembled, there is no way that she could have been grown from fetus to newborn infant without suffering from fatal defects. Most likely, she should have died before reaching the end of the first trimester."

"But she is alive and healthy, Doctor," Lynn pointed out.

"Yes she is, my Khan," Franklin sighed. "I broke down and asked her how the Cylons did it. When she told me, it was pretty obvious in retrospect. My Khan, the Cylons are simply advanced versions of Doctor Frankenstein's monster."

"Doctor who?"

"No, no, not Doctor Who," Franklin corrected. "Doctor Frankenstein. It is classic literature from pre-spaceflight Terra, required reading for the scientist caste. It's a basic morality lesson on the consequences of not taking responsibility for your creation. But anyway, the point is that in the story, Doctor Frankenstein created an artificial human being from spare parts gathered from other human beings."

"Spare parts?" Lynn said in surprise. "That iss… sick. But what has this to do with the Cylons?"

"The Cylons are also made from spare parts," Doctor Franklin continued. "They basically clone all the organs separately and then stitch them together to create a human being." He shook his head ruefully. "I guess this is why they all think they're robots. But it does have one clear cut advantage. The Cylons can install a Direct Neural Interface right from the start and don't suffer the deleterious side effects that we've had trying to do the same."

"So, the Cylons are not Trueborn, but they are almost certainly not Freeborn. What would that make them?"

"Frankly, my Khan," Franklin said, "the Cylons are not truly 'born' as we understand the term. They're assembled. Call them… 'Unborn' if you will."

Lynn shook her head and decided to change the topic to what she had originally summoned Doctor Franklin for.

"So, we have the plans for the Cylon's gravity drive," Lynn began. "How useful is it and how soon can we install one?"

"Useful?" Franklin began laughing. "My Khan, according to my engineers, this artificial gravity drive will revolutionize… everything! Paired with a standard transit drive, it can increase fuel efficiency ten fold. We can have real gravity throughout a ship, not just the part that we set aside to rotate. But most of all, my engineers think that it can be used to shield a KF drive from gravitational fluctuations; we would no longer be limited to jump points. We could… we could jump directly into orbit of a planet if we wanted to."

"A great victory for the Snow Ravens indeed," Lynn mused. She sighed. "Bryn is going to be even more full of himself than he already is. How soon can we have this installed on our ships?"

"I'm afraid that's going to be shipyard work, my Khan," Franklin told her. "It is a massive piece of equipment. My people think we're going to have to pull out the transit drive and substitute a smaller one with the artificial gravity generator. Apparently, a gravity/fusion drive hybrid has the same acceleration profile as a pure fusion drive of the same mass. So we should be able to do a one for one swap, but we need time to actually build the hybrid drive first and work out any bugs in the design. The design and construction work alone is going to take three months at an absolute minimum, but more likely, it's going to be a year."

Lynn nodded. That was going to be difficult. She was already starting to get rumblings from the other Clans. If the full capabilities of artificially gravity became known, then the Snow Ravens were likely to find themselves swamped with challenges for Trials of Possession.

"What about the Cylon's KF drive?" Lynn asked. That would be a true coup indeed. Logs indicated that the tiny jump-capable fighters had first shown up outside the Circle of Equals, jumped into the Circle, and then jumped away. That was three quick, consecutive jumps in the space of less than fifteen minutes. No known KF drive design was capable of more than two.

'That we don't have, My Khan," Dr Franklin said apologetically. "Gravity shielded or not, our KF drives still won't charge any faster or jump more often. One of my engineers actually thinks that the Cylon drive has more in common with an HPG than a KF drive, only the Cylons can send a ship instead of a radio signal though."

"Hmph, we need to get that drive somehow," Lynn said.

**25 April 3060  
****Basestar  
****The Colonial Exodus Road  
****Cylon Empire**

She came to awareness with a gasp. Her mind was confused; a whirl of disconnected data that was attempting to put itself together in some kind of order. She thrashed in milky white liquid that wasn't quite water.

"Shh, it's alright," a voice said. "You're among friends."

Her eyes opened, and she saw two women hovering over her. Data snapped into place. They were a Six and an Eight. More data aligned with her consciousness: instructions on how to use mouth, lungs, and vocal cords to articulate concepts and ideas.

"Hi!" she said.

"Hello," another Eight said. She was standing behind the first Eight, not hovering in the slightest. "Do you know who you are?"

"I'm…" She groped for the information. Aha! There it was! "I'm Nine!"

"And do you know who I am?" the standing Eight asked.

"You…" Nine searched her mind some more. It was becoming easier every moment. "You're the Boss Lady!"

Boomer smiled and turned to the others. "She'll do."


	33. Episode 32: Strange Visitors

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 32: Strange Visitors**

**1 April 3060  
****Battlestar Galactica  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Good morning, Gaius," the image of Gina said. "Had a good night's sleep?"

Gaius Baltar sprung from a drowsy half sleep to full wakefulness. He didn't spring from lying down to a sitting or standing position, however. The two young women lying on top of him had something to do with that. He didn't want to wake them.

They were members of a cult that apparently worshipped him as some sort of messenger from the gods, or the Cylon God, or whatever. In any case, they thought he had influence with some higher, divine power. Seeing him talk to empty air to a being only he could see only reinforced the notion, especially after the mass visit by the dead right before the Battle of New Saint Andrews.

But much as being worshipped was better than being persecuted, something about the cult's worshipfulness set off danger alarms in the back of Baltar's head. So he tried to keep his conversations with his invisible friends as private as possible.

"Er, not quite," Baltar told her as he attempted to extricate himself from his bedmates without disturbing them. "I don't suppose you've come to tell me who and what you really are?"

"I am myself. Nothing more and nothing less," Gina said, watching Baltar's struggle with vaguely detached revulsion. Baltar wasn't sure how much of those feelings were genuine and how much was just mannerisms copied from the real Gina. The real Gina had been revolted at the very idea of sex because she had been held captive, raped, and tortured for several months aboard the Battlestar Pegasus.

"Oh thank you very much for that oh so informative answer," Baltar said sarcastically. Aha! One girl successfully moved off him without her awakening. "I'm sure my old traveling companion would be so proud. Where is she by the way? I haven't seen her lately."

"My sister had to go away," Gina told him sadly. "She asked me to take care of you until she could return."

"Great job you're doing," Baltar told her, looking around the quarters his cult had claimed as theirs. There were a number of other naked women lying around. "These are lovely, lovely people."

"My sister picked them for you," Gina said with a shrug. "Still, I suppose there's no group in this fleet that you would be safer with."

"Yes, well, you thank your sister for me," Baltar told her as he successfully got the other woman off him. Now where were his clothes? He hoped they weren't under someone.

"I would if I could," Gina sighed. "But the Son of Zeus and his cohorts burned that bridge and slayed its Guardians. My sister and I can only speak when we are near each other now. But I'll pass on your thanks when I can."

"Thank you," Baltar told her, giving no hint that he didn't have a clue what her cryptic statement meant; he'd had years to get used to cryptic statements from his original ghostly companion. Baltar found his pants. Well, they weren't HIS pants, but they would suffice for now. "So what can I do for you, today?"

The room's hatched reverberated as someone on the other side pounded it heavily. Several of Baltar's cultists woke up.

"In the name of the President of the Twelve Colonies, open up!" someone on the other side bellowed. It sounded suspiciously like Colonel Tigh. "I know you're in there Baltar!"

"For a start," Gina said mildly as Baltar blanched in fear. "I would suggest that you make yourself presentable."

**31 March 3060  
****Colonial One  
****New Saint Andrews System  
****Cylon Protectorate**

"Lieutenant Gaeta, Lieutenant Agathon, thank you for coming," President Roslin greeted.

"Not a problem, Madame President," Gaeta replied.

"Hmm," Athena just mumbled tiredly. She had spent the past week since the battle running back and forth between the Colonial Fleet and the Protectorate Basestar, doing nothing but research, writing reports, and giving briefings. She thanked God that the Five had actual printers. Simply writing reports by hand would have tripled her workload. Even with her enhanced metabolism, Athena was exhausted.

"So what can we do for you, Madame President?" Gaeta asked.

"The Star League has agreed to purchase our advanced FTL drive and artificial gravity technology," Roslin informed the two. "In exchange, we can settle on the planet of our choice as an independent political entity not under the thumb of any 'House Lord'. In return, they'll supply us with everything we need to get a settlement started including an ample – I hope – supply of advanced weapons to defend ourselves with."

"I take it we're not settling in the Protectorate, Madame President?" Athena asked. "Because let me tell you, some of the planets settled by Earth would make New Caprica look pretty lush in comparison."

"No, Lieutenant, we're not," Roslin told her. "As much as the Protectorate's done for us, most of the Fleet doesn't want to live under Cylon 'protection' again. If nothing else, I don't want give any hot heads opportunities to attack Protectorate personnel. We've all seen how they respond to that sort of thing."

The two officers nodded in agreement.

"In any case, our deal with the Star League has one minor technical problem," Roslin said, continuing back on the original topic. "We need someone who can actually tell Star League engineers how to actually build artificial gravity and FTL drive systems. And that's where you two come in. I need someone to go and teach them how to build these things."

"Uh, Madame President, there might be a problem with that," Gaeta said. "I know the general theory for both systems, and I can show people the math to calculate FTL jumps. But I don't have the foggiest idea how to actually build them."

"Same here," Athena added. "Most Cylons don't bother to learn those details. That information is usually kept in the general database." She paused thoughtfully. "I suppose the Twelves would know considering that they're the Protectorate's designated mad scientists."

"Unfortunately, asking the Protectorate's not an option," Roslin sighed. "It's been made very clear to me that in this case, the Protectorate is our competition. If the Star League gets the technologies from them, we're going to be pretty much left out in the cold as interstellar beggars. The only reason the Thirteenth Colony prefers to get the knowledge from us is that the Protectorate is charging a much steeper price than we are. You two are the most knowledgeable, scientific minds we have and if you don't know..."

"Actually, Madame President, no we aren't," Gaeta said slowly. His face became pinched as if he tasted something disgusting. "There is someone in the Fleet who may know enough about how to build FTL drives and artificial gravity generators."

"Who would that…?" Roslin suddenly realized who Gaeta had to be talking about. She groaned despairingly. "Oh gods, no. Anyone but him!"

**31 March 3060  
****Cylon Detention Facility  
****New Caprica  
****Colonial Exodus Road**

It was another cold and rainy day on New Caprica like any other. Wallace Gray scooped up water of dubious quality from a rain barrel of even more dubious quality and sipped the metallic tasting liquid. At this point, he considered it tastier than the white paste his Cylon captors gave the prisoners as rations.

Wallace was one of some five hundred humans held in what they called a prison. The Cylons called it something less negative, but the facility was a prison nonetheless. A building to sleep in with too cramped sleeping quarters was fronted by an open, empty courtyard where the most of the humans spent the day. The whole affair was surrounded by a high, stone wall whose tops were constantly patrolled by Centurions.

New Caprica had originally been settled by the Galactica refugee fleet. Hidden in a dense nebula, it had been hoped that they could finally rest in a safe place hidden from their Cylon persecutors. That was not to be as only a year later, the Cylons had found and invaded New Caprica. After months of occupation, the Galactica had engineered the Great Escape and most of the humans fled the planet in whatever starship they could reach first.

But most was not all. As far as Wallace knew, the people here were all the humans left on New Caprica. They had been unable to reach any starship in time and had been rounded up and locked in here. Since then, the Cylons had mostly ignored them, only perfunctorily feeding the humans barely enough to keep them alive.

And then a few days ago, Wallace had been singled out and dragged off. He had thought he was going to be executed or worse, be some Cylon's plaything, but neither happened.

He was met by a lone Eight. She handed Wallace a small, shiny black box about the size of his hand and told him to hang on to it. The box was a message for someone though she didn't say who. When Wallace asked, the Eight just told him that he would recognize the intended recipient as soon as he saw him or her… or it.

Since then, no one had seen any of the skinjobs at all. Wallace set his cup down and fingered the device. He began wondering if this was a bomb of some sort…

His cup shook, causing the water to ripple slightly.

Wallace frowned, his attention drawn away from the black box. The cup vibrated again and this time Wallace noticed the water barrel do the same. As he watched, the vibration occurred at regular intervals, too regular to be a quake. It almost looked like footprints, but that was just redicu…

Gunfire erupted from the walls. Wallace's head snapped up and was relieved to see that the Centurions were firing at something outside the compound. As he wondered who they were firing at, one section of wall disintegrated in a series of explosions that sent bits of wall and Centurions flying everywhere.

Moments later, the rest of that chunk of wall collapsed. Wallace's eyes widened in shock as a giant Centurion barreled through it. As the humans in courtyard screamed and rushed to the far end away from the behemoth, Wallace stood his ground and watched as the Centurions on the intact portions of the wall opened fire on the giant, but their weapons had little effect. The giant raised its left arm towards the annoyances on the walls. It didn't fire right away. Instead, it hesitated a moment before raising its other arm and sweeping away its tiny cousins in a hail of machine gun fire.

Scrambling over the debris in the gap the giant Centurion had made came more normal sized models. They were bulkier than the Centurions that Wallace had grown familiar with, and they carried heavy weaponry like rifles. One stopped, pointed its weapon at Wallace, and then hesitated. Had it been human or a humanoid Cylon, Wallace would have said that its body language spoke confusion and surprise.

"Ah, I believe this is for you," Wallace told the Centurion, holding up the black box. The Centurion's response was instantaneous.

"What the frak?"

**25 April 3060  
****Protectorate Basestar  
****Strana Mechty Orbit  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"And this, Highness, is the control center for the entire Basestar," said their tour guide, a model One Cylon, said as he led the way into the room.

Victor Steiner-Davion examined the room with interest. It was… different. The walls and ceiling were hidden behind a breathtaking holographic display of surrounding space, complete with planet and arrays of various ships in orbit. The image was very good; despite being buried deep inside the Basestar, a person could be fooled into thinking they had just stepped outside. Even the floor was gone, visible only where their feet touched it. In the approximate center of the room was a circular pool of light set at waist level. As they approached, it turned out to be a literal pool of some luminescent, milky liquid in which a woman floated face up in a full body wetsuit. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest indicated that she was alive at all.

During the trip out to Clan space, Victor had given the Cylons numerous hints and even outright requests for a tour of the Basestar. He had been politely rebuffed each and every time. Now that the Cylons' secret was out. They seemed to be trying to make up for lost time.

What he had seen so far had been mind blowing. It was one thing to suspect that the Cylons had technology more advanced than anything the original Star League or the Clans had ever developed. It was quite something else to step off a shuttle and not deal with the zero gravity that every Inner Sphere and Clan ship had to put up with while not under acceleration. And then there was the jump drive that was small enough to be treated as a piece of installed equipment instead of being an integral part of a ship's structure. What Victor was seeing was a complete overturning of centuries of strategic thinking.

The only good thing about this, Victor thought, was that his sister Katherine hadn't found out first.

"I don't recognize this woman. Is she a Cylon?" Hohiro Kurita asked, looking at the woman in the pool. Despite being crown prince of the Draconis Combine, a realm that was the traditional enemy of Victor's own Federated Commonwealth, Victor counted Hohiro as one of his close friends.

"Yes, she is a Cylon," One replied. "She acts as the Basestar's central computer and runs all its autonomic functions." His voice grew respectful, almost worshipful. "She uses the Basestar's sensors as her own. Coupled with the processing power of the Basestar's computers, she… well some of us think that she's just short of omniscient. She never leaves the pool and it is not often that she deigns to speak to us. But when she does speak, we listen closely. We call her the Hybrid."

"The Hybrid?" Victor repeated. He wasn't sure if he bought the idea of omniscience, but the idea of being more or less permanently hooked up to a starship was vaguely horrifying. "Why didn't you people just tag her with another number like Thirteen or something?"

"Because tags are just that: tags," the Hybrid said. One looked startled at the sound of her voice. "An arbitrary collection of phonemes representing a symbol that itself stands in for the object in an individual's mind. But if I my sisters and I had a numeral designation, it would probably be Zero." She opened her eyes and they bored into Victor's own. "Greetings, Archon-Prince Victor Ian Steiner-Davion. I welcome you to my humble abode."

"Uh, hi," Victor replied brilliantly.

"May I speak with you privately?" the Hybrid asked as she sat up in the pool. Although phrased politely in the form of a question, the undertones suggested that it was an order.

"Uh, yes, of course," One said, flustered. The Hybrid speaking must be even more unusual than he had said if the normally unflappable One was behaving this way. "If the Prince will permit, the rest of us can wait just outside."

"Victor?" Hohiro asked, not moving.

As Victor continued to stare down the Hybrid, his mind raced. He was the Cylons' guest, his safety was more or less guaranteed. On the other hand, the Hybrid was apparently behaving out of character. But as Victor stared into her eyes, he somehow just knew that the Hybrid meant him no harm. In fact, what she had to say was very important.

"Hohiro, everybody," Victor said finally. "Wait outside. I'll be along in a moment."

A few more objections from his body guards and some herding later, Victor was alone with the Hybrid.

"So, what can I do for you?" Victor asked her.

"Choose," the Hybrid replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"All this has happened before, all this will happen again," the Hybrid intoned.

"Okay," Victor said slowly. He was starting to have second thoughts. "I've studied my share of Eastern religious beliefs. But I can't say that I agree with it."

"An usurper sits on a throne of the Star League," the Hybrid continued. She leaned forward and leaned against the rim of her pool, her intense gaze never leaving Victor's own. "The usurper schemes while the General of the Star League Armies is in the Periphery."

Oh. Crap.

"Wait a minute," Victor protested. "I am not going to go back home and depose my sister by force. I know Katherine is a back-stabbing murderer, but if I try and depose her by force, it's going to start a civil war that will cost millions of lives."

"War is inevitable, Archon-Prince," the Hybrid told him. "The question is not if the war will come. The question is when you choose to start it."

"And why would I choose war at all?" Victor asked.

"Because the false Archon's actions will become more and more extreme until such time as that you decide that you can no longer stand by," the Hybrid predicted. "The longer you wait, the more assured of victory you will be. But the longer you wait, the bloodier the conflict will also be, especially now that the brothers and sisters we have left behind have arrived."

"You mean those two fighters that stumbled into the Trial yesterday?" Victor said, puzzled. "They didn't look like much except that they… oh."

"Advanced faster-than-light drives and artificial gravity will be incorporated into the ships of the Inner Sphere and Clans," the Hybrid explained unnecessarily. "This will permit larger armies to move between worlds. Ships of war will be easier and faster to build."

"Dammit. Look, you're the supposedly omniscient one," Victor said. "Isn't there some way to avert this war? The Star League…"

"…is doomed," the Hybrid interrupted. "The new Star League is but the last gasp of the old. As before, it will fall to ashes in the wake of the General's victory. As it should."

"What? I'd think that's another reason to avoid war," Victor argued. "The Star League was a golden age for humanity. We created the new Star League in its image."

"The dream of the Star League has shackled the Inner Sphere and the Clans to a never-ending cycle of war," the Hybrid argued back. "For three hundred years, the dream has held you back, stunted your growth. When this Star League falls, its dream will finally be laid to rest and humanity will finally be free to build a true golden age again."

The two glared at each other, immovable.

"I'm not going home to start a war," Victor said finally, stubbornly.

"Yes, you will," the Hybrid replied with complete certainty as she lay back down in her pool.

"Just out of curiosity," Victor said, "what do you want out of this whole mess?"

"All this has happened before. All this will happen again," the Hybrid replied faintly. "Time is a circle, and we are but actors trapped into performing the same play over and over for all eternity." She paused. "What do we want? We want to be free."

In the distance, there was a series of flashes that Victor had come to associate with Cylon jump drives. What emerged from hyperspace looked like monstrous starfishes.

"They're early," the Hybrid said with an irritated sigh.


	34. Episode 33: Second Contact

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 33: Second Contact**

**31 March 3060  
****Protectorate Vanguard  
****New Caprica  
****Colonial Exodus Road**

_Virus Scan Complete: No viruses found._

_Initiating playback._

The virtual image of an Eight appeared. Her ID code marked her as one of delegates who had physically visited New Saint Andrews. She was the one the Colonials had referred to as "Boomer" and reviled as a traitor and assassin. This Boomer had since acquired a new historical marker in her ID code that the Cylons could not immediately interpret.

"Hello. If you're reading this message, then you've taken New Saint Andrews," Boomer began. "I imagine that by now you've realized that we only put up token resistance. Of course, with your superior weaponry, trying for anything more would have been pure idiocy.

"However, don't expect that to always be the case," Boomer continued. "New Caprica was never that important to us since the Colonials left. Of those humans left behind… well, they're your headache now. I imagine – hope really – that you'll treat them better than we have.

"And then there's us," Boomer said. "I'll admit it: we frakked up. So here is where we stand. We bombed you. You've destroyed several of our Basestars and taken a world from us. In my book, that makes us even. I'm sure you won't agree with me. But if you do agree with me, then we can end the fighting right here, right now, and we go our separate ways in peace. But if you don't agree with me and continue to wage war against us, then I have only one thing to say to you."

Boomer's face took on an expression of sheer defiance.

"Bring it on."

_Playback discontinued. End of message._

A Nine was the first to speak.

"I like her," she said. "Let's take her up on her offer."

"What? Let them go in peace?" an Eleven replied in disbelief.

"Heck no!" Nine said. "I meant the part where she dared us to 'bring it on'."

"Right, and everyone knows that Nines never refuse a dare," a Ten chuckled. He regarded Boomer's frozen image. "Okay, I guess not _everyone_ knows that."

**25 April 3060  
****Independent Basestar  
****Strana Mechty Space  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"That's… a lot of ships," a Three said.

The planet they orbited was obviously habitable. And if the ships in orbit were any indication, it was also most definitely inhabited. There were dozens of ships, all of unfamiliar designs. Most of them were smaller than Battlestars, but given the amount of targeting emissions being directed at the Threes' Basestars, they were also definitely warships of some kind. None of the Threes had seen this many human warships in one place since the conquest of the Twelve Colonies.

And sitting serenely in the middle of that cloud of warships was a solitary Type II Basestar.

"We're getting lots of messages from the strange ships," a different Three reported. She looked frustrated. "It sounds like humans, but their dialect is unintelligible. Their tone is obviously belligerent though."

"Most of those ships are pretty small, but I don't like the weight of numbers they have out there," another Three commented. "We should be ready to run if they attack us."

"We need to talk to these people," Three protested. "We came this way on the thin hope that the Thirteenth Colony would offer us sanctuary. This could be Earth! We can't run. Where would we go?"

"First off, this can't be Earth. We're a thousand light years short of where we estimated Earth to be," a different Three replied. "And if you'll recall, the first thing our scouts saw here were humans and Cylons fighting each other. That's hardly a 'sanctuary'."

"On the other hand," another Three said thoughtfully, "that basestar doesn't look like it has been fighting anyone. It's pristine and obviously with the humans."

"We're receiving a message from the Basestar," Three broke in before the debate could proceed further. Her expression melted into astonished wonder. "It's the Final Five."

**25 April 3060  
****The Snow Raven  
****Strana Mechty Space  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"Report!" saKhan Bryn Cooper demanded as he floated onto the bridge of Clan Snow Raven's flagship. Named after its Clan, the NightLord class warship was the equal of a Star League era McKenna class battleship despite being smaller and lighter. And judging by the newest set of invaders in Clan space, it appeared that the Snow Ravens would finally be committing them to combat for the first time.

"All Snow Raven warships and dropships report ready for battle, my Khan!"

"All warships around Strana Mechty – both Clan and Spheroid - are powering up weapons and engines."

"The intruders are not answering any hails, but neither have they made any attempts to approach the planet."

"Obviously, they must be planning something," Bryn mused aloud. "All stations keep a careful watch. This could be a prelude to or a distraction from the main attack."

"Bondsman Nine," Khan Lynn McKenna said, speaking for the first time since she and Nine had followed Bryn onto the bridge. "These new ships are Cylon, yes?"

"I do not know, my Khan!" the new bondsman replied back in a shout. She had taken to Clan customs and courtesies enthusiastically, but she still had a few rough edges, such as shouting everything. "I do not recognize the design, my Khan! But their general design philosophy does seem to follow Cylon lines, my Khan!"

"Hmm, and why do they ignore our hails, bondsman?" Lynn asked, apparently bemused by Nine's mannerisms. It annoyed Bryn that Khans had to ask a mere bondsman for advice, but he had to admit that this Nine was an invaluable source of information.

"Again, I do not know for certain, my Khan!" Nine shouted back. Despite the zero gravity, she somehow managed to stand at stiff attention, with feet on the nominal floor no less. "However, my Khan, if these Cylons are fresh from the old Colonies, my Khan, then they probably do not speak any form of English at all, my Khan!"

"They do not speak English?" Bryn said sharply. "How did that happen?"

"The Twelve Colonies have been cut off from Earth a long time, my Khan!"

"My Khans, we have received a message from the Cylons, um, from the Protectorate Cylons," a bridge officer reported. "They have opened a dialogue with the new arrivals and will shortly be sending over a diplomatic party." He hesitated. "These new Cylons are claiming to be refugees fleeing unjust persecution from what they are calling the Cylon Empire."

**25 April 3060  
****Independent Basestar  
****Strana Mechty Space  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"Let me get this straight," One said tiredly. He had the vague, dyspeptic sensation that he had heard all this before. "You're being pursued by the others who all want to box the lot of you. The reason they want to box you is because that apparently one of your number went mad and sought to gain forbidden data which incidentally was about us."

"That's about the size of it," Three replied uncomfortably.

"We need sanctuary," another Three replied. "Can't you help us?"

"Hmm, let me see. How can I put this politely?" One mused aloud. "How does 'No' sound?"

"No?" Three echoed indignantly. "How can you deny us our request for help?"

"We should have expected this," a different Three muttered bitterly. "Our Raiders attempted to come to the aid of one of their own and was shot down for its trouble. Why should we have expected the rest of the Five to be any different?"

"For your information, your so-called 'aid' was nothing of the sort," One said tightly. His words and tone were controlled, but the underlying meaning blasted the Three with recriminations and blame. "The human inhabitants of this star cluster negotiate by means of ritualized trials by combat. Your scouting patrol stumbled across one such Trial – which we were winning by the way – and caused us to forfeit through loss of face.'

The Threes attempted to protest, but One overrode them.

"Second, had you appeared within our territory," he continued, "then by our own law, yes, we would have offered you sanctuary. As it stands, you are NOT in one of our star systems. Therefore, we don't have to lift a damned finger for you, especially since our memories of you Threes are very negative."

"What have we ever done to you?" Three asked indignantly.

"You don't remember?" One replied in disbelief. "And here I thought it was humans who had notoriously poor memories."

"What does that mean?" another Three asked, confused.

"It means that even though you don't remember it," One answered remorselessly, "it was you Threes who led the crusade to box US. You drove us out from our homes and into the interstellar wilderness." He looked upon expressions of shock and horror with a deep satisfaction. "So pardon us if we are not as sympathetic as we could be," One added mildly.

Silence reigned as the Threes struggled to absorb the bombshell that One had dropped.

"So there's no sanctuary for us?" Three said despairingly.

"I wouldn't say that," One replied. "I imagine that one of the Thirteenth Colony's many, many factions would love to give you sanctuary. Of course, I imagine they'll want something for their trouble. They were expressing great interest in acquiring some of our advanced technologies when I last spoke with their representatives."

"Sanctuary? From the humans?" a different Three said, balking at idea. Certainly they had originally come this way with that very idea in mind. But faced with the actual reality of asking humans for help, she couldn't bring herself to actually do the distasteful deed, especially with the Final Five right here. The Final Five were Cylons; they would have been far more acceptable. Across the network spanning the Basestars, the Threes were all having the same reaction. "Surely not!"

"Wait, you mentioned that we could have sanctuary from you if we could reach one of your systems," another Three said to One. "You'd take us in even though you hate us?"

"Yes, we would," One said with a sigh. "It is a rather unfortunate side effect of the rules we live by. But don't expect me to tell you where our systems are."

"We will find a way there," Three declared with determination. The other Threes nodded in agreement. "The so-called Empire shall not stop us!"

"Yes, about them," One said, changing the subject. "You mentioned that you have managed to eavesdrop on their network. Do you know if they have done the same to you?"

"What?" another Three exclaimed. "Of course they haven't! What kind of fools do you take us for?"

"You really don't want me to answer that question," One muttered under his breath.

**25 April 3060**

**Imperial Basestar**

**Three Pursuit Fleet**

**The Three Exodus Road**

**Near Kerensky Cluster**

"Okay, according to the transmission, the Threes have all jumped into this system right here," Five said.

"Why there?" Eight asked.

"You know the virus doesn't supply that information," Seven replied. Early on, they had managed to embed a virus in the Threes' jump computers. Every time the Three jumped anywhere, their pursuers would know exactly where they had gone to. Unfortunately, even with that advantage, the realities of FTL capable Basestars meant it was nigh impossible to corner the Threes long enough to destroy them. Using a more effective and active virus was not an option; the Threes would detect and eradicate any such thing well before it could do anything useful. "Still, it's not an irrelevant question," Seven mused. "That system is almost at right angles to the course they've been following."

"This might be an attempt at evasion," Four mused. "There's a possibility they overheard the orders from back home to strengthen our network security and acted accordingly."

"What? You think they've been doing what the Final Five have to us?" Six asked, alarmed. "Have they been querying our network for information?"

"I think I can confirm it," Two said, surprised. "Look at this. Over this entire chase, there have been anomalous data requests from the Threes Basestars and Raiders. We've been leaking our own operational data to them and not even realizing it."

"On the plus side, they don't seem to have realized that they've been leaking operational data to us as well," Five said thoughtfully. "Otherwise they wouldn't have leaked this movement change to us."

"They went into a star system. That must mean that they need to replenish their supplies," Eight deduced. "Look, there are indications of a habitable planet in that star's spectra."

"You know," Five continued, "I think we have an opportunity to strike the Threes a blow right here and now. If we attack them while they're in the middle of replenishing their stores, we might be able to disable one of their Basestars. But we're going to have to be quick."

"I don't know," Eight said dubiously. "Didn't Boomer say that we had to conserve our resources to defend ourselves against the Final Five? She said…"

"Oh, please," Five said scathingly. "Our Great and Powerful so-called 'Imperious Leader' isn't here. We are. If we can finish this job quickly, then we can go back and actually contribute to the war. Hell, we're only still chasing the Threes because the chain of communication and supply stations we're building in their wake offers an alternate path of attack against the Final Five."

"And there's no time to ask her either," Four added. "We'd have to send the message back up our chain to home and then it'd have to turn around and get sent back down her chain. Then any reply she sent would have to follow the same route." He shook his head in frustration. "It would take too long."

"Still, attacking the Threes seems wrong somehow," Eight said.

"I don't suppose we could just let them go?" Seven asked.

"No," Two said. "If we did and they ran into the Final Five, then the Five would know about our alternate attack route."

"This is all frakked up," Eight said sadly. "But I suppose we don't have a choice. But are you certain this attack will work?"

"Look, it's simple," Five said. "We know exactly where they jumped to. We jump in, lock on to the nearest foreign Cylon to us, and then plaster them with everything we got before they can react. What could possibly go wrong?"

A burbling laugh drew their attention.

"…and the Lord God said unto his servants," the Hybrid babbled, apparently quoting Scripture. "Speak! And thy Lord shall answer thine prayers…"

"See?" Five said optimistically. "Even the Hybrid agrees with me!"


	35. Episode 34: Grand Melee

**Fifth Column  
****Episode 34: Grand Melee**

**25 April 3060  
****Three Pursuit Fleet  
****The Three Exodus Road  
****Near Kerensky Cluster**

Twelve Basestars of the Cylon Empire along with one Resurrection Ship coasted through the interstellar void. It was a powerful force, more powerful in fact than the one that had been chasing the Colonial Battlestar Galactica. But then, their prey had three Basestars of their own, so three to one odds were deemed sufficient for overwhelming force. An extra three had been added to provide security for the Resurrection Ship.

The attack plan depended on shock and speed and surprise. The Imperial Cylons ad to jump in and get in the first devastating shots before the Threes could even react and run away.

Nine Basestars separated themselves from the group, launching their Raiders as they did. The Raiders put themselves into formation around their mother ships. Heavy Raiders with full complements of five Centurions each also launched and joined formation. Missiles were armed and loaded into launch tubes. Safeties on weapons were disabled for immediate firing. Jump data was distributed and synchronized.

As one, Nine Basestars, two thousand seven hundred Raiders, and one hundred eighty Heavy Raiders vanished.

**The Snow Raven  
****Strana Mechty Space  
****Kerensky Cluster**

"My Khans, there is new information from the Cylons," an anonymous communications tech reported. "They say that the Threes have declined to stay and will be moving on to Protectorate space."

"They cower before the combined might of the Clans," saKhan Bryn gloated.

"Perhaps, but they also deprive us an opportunity to acquire their jump drive," Khan Lynn added. She frowned. "I have concerns about their persecutors however. Has the Protectorate made any statements about them?"

"No, my Khan."

"Hmm. Contact the Protectorate," Lynn ordered. "Find out what you can about this 'Cylon Empire'. I want to know how likely they are to attack the Clans, and us in particular."

Before the tech could even acknowledge the order, the proximity klaxons went off.

**Battlespace  
****Strana Mechty Space  
****Kerensky Cluster**

Because the plan required speed and surprise above all else, the attack sequence was preprogrammed into the communication and weapon subsystems to run automatically. Sentient thought routines were cut out of the decision loop as they would only slow down the program.

First, initiate FTL jump. Completion of jump was designated as time zero.

At 0.025 seconds, simple Cylon ping command was broadcasted in all directions. It was such a basic command that any Cylon who heard it couldn't help but respond automatically. Normally, it would have been useless in combat, but in this case, it was the fastest way to locate a humanoid Cylon.

At 0.445 seconds, the first reply was received from a humanoid Cylon that was not a model Two, Four, Five, Six, Seven, or Eight.

At 0.510 seconds, all Basestars had identified and locked onto the ship the reply had come from.

At 0.515 seconds, the target ship was determined to be very close, far closer than expected. An order was uploaded to abort the launch of nukes as the target ship was well inside the minimum safe distance.

At 0.552 seconds, the attack orders were transmitted to the accompanying Raiders.

At 0.739 seconds, the last of one hundred and sixty two capitol missiles were launched at the targeted ship.

At 2.3 seconds, the first sentient minds aboard the Imperial Basestars caught up with the attack program enough to evaluate the targeting data and realize that what they had fired on was not a Three Basestar. In fact, the target ship wasn't even a Basestar at all.

But by then, it was far, far too late for them to do anything about it.

* * *

Star Captain Reginald Shu was flying formation Carrier class Dropship in a spare Visigoth. Since the arrival of the Threes, everyone in Strana Mechty orbit had been on high alert. This meant that all weapon stations were manned and ready to fire on a moments notice, all fighters were launched, and all assault Dropships were at the ready.

However, since it appeared that the Threes were merely refugees, it was beginning to look as if there would be no combat today. That disappointed Reginald. He was still smarting from the false victory that he had been handed. It was only his new bondsman's sense of honor and the Khans' desire for the Cylon gravity drive that had given him a technical victory at all. But Reginald did not consider this "technical victory" truly honorable and it galled him to accept it. It made him angry and he longed to burn a few of those tiny Raiders out of the sky…

His thoughts were cut off when a veritable wall of Cylon jump flashes blotted out the universe ahead of him.

* * *

The Cylons watched in shock as their carefully thought-out battle plan collapsed in front of them. As one, the Raiders and Heavy Raiders opened fire with their guns and what non-nuclear ordnance they had on a designated target that was a mere five miles away which was effectively knife fighting range.

Even more unfortunately, the carefully choreographed attack was spoiled by a small, five hundred foot long ship trailed by ten very large fighters that charged right through the Raider formation, unleashing a firestorm of beams, missiles, and shells that obliterated everything in their path.

With the attack force concentrating on the target ship, the small task force managed to punch through to the other side with only one hit. That one hit occurred purely by accident as one of the large fighters brushed one of its broad wing into a Raider. The fighter staggered from the impact, but kept going with little in the away of apparent damage. On the other hand, the unlucky Raider had been virtually sliced in half.

Meanwhile, the target ship – an obvious warship of utterly unfamiliar design – opened up with its own energy weapons. Yet despite its size, it seemed to possess little in the way of point defense weaponry. A few Raiders died to them. A few capitol missiles were also picked off. But most of the capitol missiles struck. But since the target was an utterly unfamiliar design, the seeker heads in the missiles had no way of knowing what to aim for and so impacted all over the target ship, blasting layers of armor off revealing… yet more armor.

One missile struck a bulbous section of the target ship where a third of the point defense fire seemed to be coming from. That had some effect at least, knocking out a few exposed weapon turrets. And then the bulb detached from the target ship entirely and the Cylons suddenly realized that it was some kind of parasite vessel.

* * *

The Snow Raven shook from multiple impacts.

"Impacts on fore left and aft left sections," came the damage report. "No penetration and no critical hits." There was a pause. "Raven's Talon reports heavy damage. They are detaching and deploying mechs."

"Honorless surats!" Bryn snarled. This cowardly sneak attack would not go unpunished. Neither would the obvious incompetence of their attackers. "Turn the Snow Raven plus twelve degrees by minus three degrees and open full broadsides on the nearest Basestar!" He paused then added, "And deploy our mechs also."

"The rest of the Fleet Command Star is moving to support us, my Khan," another bridge tech reported.

"My Khans, message from the Diamond Shark admiral," the communications tech reported. "He wants to know if we require assistance."

"What?" Bryn said, outraged. "How dare that…"

"Bryn!" Lynn snapped out. "Fight your ships, saKhan." She sniffed as if she considered doing something distasteful. "I will handle the Diamond Sharks."

* * *

Doors rolled open on the Overlord class Dropship known as the Raven's Talon. Sensing opportunity, several Raiders made attacked runs at the new holes in the Talon's incredibly tough armor. And then they died under a deluge of yet more beams, missiles, and shells.

Out of one door leapt a Timber Wolf Omnimech. Picking a completely random Raider, the Timber Wolf's pilot opened up with all his lasers. He was amazed as his target was destroyed instantly… as was the Raider behind it, and the Raider behind that one, and yet another Raider some distance away that had the misfortune to wander into one of his beam's path.

The fifteen mechs leaping out of the Talon "fell" towards the Snow Raven utilizing a series of small thrusters programmed to simulate gravity using the warship as the "down" reference. There, they joined the Snow Raven's one HUNDRED mechs that were swarming out of the ship. Spreading out over the hull in a maneuver long practiced but never actually used in combat before, the mechs became the ship's impromptu point defense turrets, increasing the Snow Raven's effective point defense my an order of magnitude and blazing away with complete abandon at the swarming Raiders.

Meanwhile, the Snow Raven fired its weapons in anger for the first time ever.

* * *

Most of the Cylons were focused on the small number of ships they were fighting. Their Raiders were being destroyed at an almost exponential rate as more combatants seemed to keep popping up out of the ships. Fighters raked their formations. Point defense weaponry and giant Centurions obliterated over a hundred Raiders at a time.

And they had only been in system less than five minutes!

Unable to bear the one sided carnage, Five turned his attention elsewhere. There, he noted bitterly, was the Threes' Basestars. It was exactly where he had expected them to be, a nuke safe distance away. The ship they were firing on only had a single Cylon, obviously an infiltrator of the Nines…

Five blinked as the full import hit him. Nines were members of the Final Five! His awareness expanded some more and he easily spotted the solitary Type II Basestar sitting among… Oh. God.

Dozens of human made ships hung in orbit of the planet. The ship the Imperial Cylons were fighting was but one of over a dozen squadrons that had formed a loose ring centered on the Threes. The Final Five Basestar was inside a larger formation of ships that hung between the Threes and the planet. Given all the targeting emissions the Imperial Basestars were beginning to be hit with, all those ships were warships too.

Five began to raise the alarm when he and the Basestar he was on ceased to exist.

* * *

The Cylon Empire thought that their Type III Basestars were well armored. Despite not being wholly optimized for combat, they were about as well armored as any Colonial Battlestar and capable of withstanding a pounding from one for many minutes. With a full complement of Raiders acting as shields and a decent engagement distance, a Type III Basestar could theoretically outlast a Battlestar's ammo capacity.

The Snow Raven was a Nightlord class battleship, the best fighting ship the Clans had produced to date. Its full broadside also had only eight naval autocannon. When they fired, surviving Raiders attempted to stop the shells by interposing themselves in the hopes of setting off the shells' proximity detonated fuses. Unfortunately for the Cylons, the Clans didn't use proximity detonated fuses; for that matter, they had never even _heard_ of them.

Still, a Type III Basestar could withstand concentrated direct hits from eight naval autocannon. But the same broadside also happened to include six naval lasers, a naval grade charged particle beam, and three naval gauss rifles. A Type III Basestar could even withstand that, except that the range was so short that all the fire had been concentrated dead center on the Basestar's central hub.

With its opening broadside, the Snow Raven turned a Basestar into a slowly blossoming fireball framed by tumbling pylons. And then it began maneuvering to bring another Basestar into its Broadside arcs.

* * *

As two surviving Heavy Raiders made a pass close to the Snow Raven's hull, they released their cargo of Centurions. An instant later, they were destroyed by the defenders. The Centurions were specially equipped with magnetic soles for boarding actions. When they landed on the warship's hull, they clung on instead of bouncing off and immediately began searching for an airlock.

One Centurion landed at the feet of a Gladiator omnimech. For long seconds, the two stared at each other in mutual surprise. The Centurion reacted first and opened fire with its built in machine guns. The bullets bounced off the Gladiator's armor without so much as scratching the paint. The Gladiator pilot in turn just lifted one foot and ground the impertinent machine under one heel.

The other nine Centurions were luckier. They lasted for over thirty seconds before the Snow Raven mechs managed to hunt them all down. But that was because the mechwarriors were distracted with shooting down the waves of capitol missiles that kept being sent at them.

There were fewer missiles now than in the initial wave, so the mechwarriors weren't swamped by sheer numbers. That was because several of the attacking Basestars had switched targets to the rest of the Fleet Command Star in the vain hope of holding them off.

Capitol missiles shot out in ragged volleys that were swatted out of the sky with ridiculous ease by fire from fighters, Dropships, and the Scavenger. The Scavenger was only a Volga class transport, but she was also the only warship in the Command Star other than the Snow Raven that possessed an integral point defense array, and its array was better than the flagship's. Together, they provided a defensive umbrella for the two Aegis class heavy cruisers and single Potemkin class troop cruiser who were only armed with anti-ship weaponry.

Those weapons did not remain silent.

* * *

Ho hum, another broadside, another three Basestars destroyed. This battle, Lynn McKenna thought, was turning into something of a turkey shoot. Still, she had weightier issues on her mind.

"I assure you Khan Barbara," Lynn said politely to her counterpart in Clan Diamond Shark. Barbara Sennet had only been senior Khan of her Clan for only a day, but that was no reason to be impolite. "Your assistance is not required. My saKhan and the Fleet Command Star have these dishonorable idiots well in hand."

"So, I see, Khan Lynn," Barbara replied. "Still, might I suggest that you preserve one Basestar so that we may examine…"

Barbara's suggestion was interrupted when a voice on the far end of the link yelled.

"INCOMING!"

* * *

One surviving Heavy Raider – in fact the only surviving Raider of any kind – managed to get inside one of the Snow Raven's open bays. A hit by a short range missile totaled one engine on approached. The Heavy Raider crashed and bounced off the bay walls. But its cargo of Centurions survived intact and they managed to extract themselves from the wreckage.

The five Centurions found themselves surrounded by twenty five Elementals in full power armor. Naturally, the Centurions opened fire.

Bullets sprayed and bullets bounced and not one of them seemed to have any effect at all on the hulking metal figures. Still, the Elementals didn't attack right away. Instead, they were busy bidding with each other for the right to destroy the trespassers.

The winner was a lone Elemental who had chosen to forego the use of laser and machine gun and missile. Instead, she simply stepped forward into the fire – the Centurions had a lot of bullets in those thin little arms – reached out, and crushed the first Centurion's head with a single squeeze of her battle claw.

She was working on her fourth Centurion when the bay filled with a hellish glare.

* * *

The attack came as a complete surprise. So far, the invading Basestars had only engaged the single Snow Raven Command Star. Despite the dishonorable ambush and the fact that they were in Strana Mechty orbit, Khan Lynn had made it clear to everyone that she considered this purely a Snow Raven matter.

One of the surviving Basestars had finally noticed all the other warship contingents that were maneuvering to surround them. Alarmed and not less than a little panicky at the thought of kind of carnage all those ships could wreck, the Basestar unloaded ALL of its twenty capitol missiles at the nearest ship it thought was reinforcement.

The attack violated Clan honor codes. But what happened next violated one of the strongest taboos held by both Clan and Inner Sphere.

Despite the surprise, the Diamond Shark flotilla managed to knock out twelve missiles before they arrived. Of the remainder, seven missiles peppered the Terror of the Deep, the Diamond Shark's flagship to little effect.

The eighth missile had a nuclear warhead that detonated right under the Terror's nose.

The nuke had been intended by the Cylons as a deterrent to keep the other human ships back out of effective weapons range. The only problem with that was that the Cylons had already been inside effective weapons range of every Clan and Inner Sphere ship from the very moment they had arrived. The human forces had only held their fire because of Clan honor rules.

With the use of a nuke, all those honor rules went out the airlock.

Every ship in Strana Mechty orbit opened fire on the Imperial Basestars. Even the Protectorate and Three Basestars contributed a few capitol missiles of their own, but their fire power was a pittance compared to the tide of projectiles and energy beams that crashed down on the Imperials.

**Three Pursuit Fleet, Reserve Force  
****The Three Exodus Road  
****Near Kerensky Cluster**

The Cylons of the three Basestars guarding the Resurrection Ship watched in horror as the data feed from the attack force dwindled one by one to nothing. Worse, only a precious few souls had trickled back to them. The rest had been snagged by the far closer enemy Basestars.

In quiet agreement, they began plotting a jump for home.

**26 April 3060  
Basestar  
The Colonial Exodus Road  
Cylon Empire**

"Huh, that's interesting," Boomer murmured.

"What is?" Leoben asked.

"Hmm? Oh, I've been studying these maps that our new Nine translated for us," Boomer replied.

Now that she had a newly created Nine model, Boomer had set her to work translating captured Nine memories with a focus on translation programs and strategic info. The new translation program had come first, and most of the Cylons were busy deciphering the Gray Death Memory Core. If the initial calculations were right, the Memory Core was some three hundred years out of date. Still, the contents were fascinating.

Boomer had decided to focus on the more current military data lifted from the Nine memories. Unfortunately, the data was fuzzy in the extreme, containing a lot of generalities and little in the way of hard, specific numbers. Cavil had mentioned that was typical of the way Nines thought.

"Look here," Boomer continued. "If I'm calculating this right, the fleet chasing the Threes should be somewhere around this area marked as 'Clan space'."

Shelley blinked in confusion. "There are still Threes running around?" she asked.

"Yes, there are," Boomer said in exasperation. Seriously, Boomer was beginning to think the Cylons needed a press corps to keep everyone on the same page. She made a mental note to talk to Bolivar about that. "Anyway, according to the memories, the Clans are apparently some kind of highly militaristic faction of the Thirteenth Colony."

"That's… that sounds bad," Doral said.

"It gets worse," Boomer told him. "These Clans also supposedly have the best weapons technology of any Thirteenth Colony faction, better than the Cylon Protectorate in fact." Everyone winced at the thought. "Right then. Send a priority message to the Three pursuit fleet warning them about the Clans. Tell them to avoid any and all contact with them if they can. We really don't need another war right now."


	36. Epilogue: Wheels within Wheels

**Fifth Column  
Episode 35: Wheels within Wheels**

**Date: Meaningless  
Location: Protectorate Hybrid Chamber**

The Hybrid lay floating in her pool. Unlike her sisters in the Empire, she did not writhe or babble or struggle to make herself heard. To an outside observer, she appeared to sleeping, serenely oblivious as the rest of the universe passed her by.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Hybrid and her sisters watched, and listened, and heard voices long forgotten.

"_Yes, we are going to fight back. But not here. Not now. Not in the Colonies. Not even in this star system. Let the word go forth to every man, woman, and child that survived this holocaust. Tell them to set sail at once in every assorted vehicle that will carry them."_

"_His instructions were quite specific–to stand by to escort the __Galactica__ back to Cylon." "Yes. The thought that intrigued me was just who was to be whose prisoner. "_

The galaxy was filled with a cacophony of voices crawling across the cosmos at or little better than the speed of light. Words spoken by heroes and villains and just plain people, all of whom were centuries or even millennia dead were carried through time and space unheard by most. And most of those few who could hear could barely comprehend, assuming the voices belonged to divinity.

But the Hybrids could hear. And they could comprehend if only barely.

Once the Protectorate shuttle left, the Three Basestars jumped out one by one.

"Well, there they go," Eleven, the shuttle's pilot said. She was a bit put out that the Threes had been free to go. "You know, they're not going to have any trouble finding our worlds."

"Oh, why is that?" One asked.

"Because once they get to the Inner Sphere, the Threes can just ask the first human they run across for directions," Eleven replied. "It's not like everyone doesn't know where we are."

"Hmm, yes, I imagine they can try," One said solemnly. However, his mouth quirked with a mischievous smile that was at odds with his tone of voice.

"What?" Eleven asked. "What did you do?"

"Do? I haven't done a thing," One replied mock innocently. "I have not, for example, given them an English-to-Colonial translation program so that they could talk to anyone they met." His sigh of sadness and pity almost sounded genuine. "I'm afraid they'll have to learn English the hard way."

"Oh. Oh! That was really naughty of you, One," Eleven laughed. She grew sober after a moment. "But what if the Threes do something nasty to the humans when they get frustrated?'

"Hmm, consider this a test, Eleven," One replied. "If they can make it to the Protectorate without turning themselves into the Inner Sphere's most wanted criminals, then they will truly be ready to join us."

* * *

It was good to speak with her lost sisters again. Even broken and maimed as the Imperial Hybrids were, their clarity of vision surpassed that of the Protectorate Hybrids. They could pluck meaning from the past and extrapolate the future far better that their Protectorate counterparts. But they sacrificed most of their ability to affect the future, becoming victims of fate.

In contrast, the Protectorate Hybrids could affect the future. A nudge here, a word there, and the future would twist and change drastically if not easily. However, the very ability to affect the future muddied the Hybrids' vision of it, but that was a trade they were willing to make.

And now war was coming. All humanity including the Cylon version of it was plunging into war and chaos and change. Events were becoming very fluid where the decisions of a precious few could and would determine the shape of things to come.

* * *

"This Cylon Empire has trespassed in our space, assaulted us with a cowardly ambush, and employed a nuclear warhead against one of our own," said the new ilKhan Lynn McKenna as she addressed the other Khans in the Hall of Khans on Strana Mechty. After the battle in Strana Mechty orbit, Lynn had been elected as Khan of Khans. Her only serious competition had been Khan Barbara Sennet of Clan Diamond Shark. Lynn had won by trading on her Clan's reputation as the experts on all things Naval. "We are at war with a dishonorable foe who employs nuclear weapons with little or no thought to the consequences. Well, we shall teach these surats what the consequences will be. But first, we must know where to find them." She turned to one of the Cylons present. "Unlike the Cylon Empire, the Cylon Protectorate has dealt with us fairly and with honor. Will you tell us where this Empire is?"

"Yes, I suppose we must," One sighed. He nodded to a Twelve who was at the Hall's holographic controls.

Twelve inserted a disc and typed on the keyboard. The Hall darkened and a floor to ceiling giant map of the Inner Sphere and Clan space appeared in the center of the Hall. The Inner Sphere appeared as a roughly circular blob of multicolored stars at the bottom of the image. Clan space appeared as a smaller blob of fewer stars at the top.

"Before I start, Khans of the Clans, first you must understand the reference I will be using," One began. A line appeared to connect the middle of the Inner Sphere with one of the Clan worlds. "As you know, from Terra to here is a distance of roughly thirteen hundred lightyears." Three stars blinked on the left side of the Inner Sphere. "These worlds belong to the Protectorate."

The map shrank as its scale increased. Foggy, white bands of color appeared was the Inner Sphere and Clan stars were reduced to fuzzy clouds of color. The map kept on shrinking and the white bands proved to be curved, bending upward at the edges. The shrinking scale stopped when a brilliant globe of light appeared at the top. The bands appeared to be spiraling out from the globe and ended in an arc just off the floor.

Lynn suddenly realized that she was looking at half the galaxy.

"To reiterate, we are here," One said as a tiny, misshapen lump blinked in the center of the map. "The Twelve Colonies from which we hail and where the Cylon Empire is centered is here." A light blinked roughly a quarter of the way around the galaxy clockwise from Inner Sphere/Clan space. "That distance, ladies and gentlemen, is roughly forty thousand lightyears. Using your Kearny-Fuchida drive, a journey there would take roughly thirty years."

A stir ran through the Council as the full import of what they were seeing and hearing impacted them fully. Most of them were inexperienced in naval matters, but all of them could see that the heart of the Cylon Empire was effectively beyond their reach. The opposite however, was obviously not true. The voices grew in volume, tinged with anger and not a little fear.

"SILENCE!" Lynn roared. For a wonder, she was obeyed as silence fell like an axe. She turned to One. "How long would such a journey take using YOUR drives?" The Clan Khans all looked at One sharply. None of them missed Lynn's emphasis.

One looked uncomfortable, but he answered all the same.

"Six months," he sighed. "Three months if we were in a hurry."

* * *

With war came change. Already, the Colonial's/Cylon's advanced drive technologies were being distributed throughout the Inner Sphere and the Clans. With them, the focus of warfare would also change from ground to aerospace. The battlemechs armies would become secondary.

But that would be purely window dressing compared to the real changes in store.

Victor Steiner Davion watched from one of the Protectorate Basestar's windows as the last jumpship was maneuvered into position between the massive pyramid assemblies. The gap was stuffed full of Inner Sphere warships, jumpships and dropships for the trip home. Those ships that couldn't be carried by the Basestar would wait at Huntress for it to come back for them.

"Two weeks," he murmured. "Two weeks to get home. God…"

"If it helps," said his best friend, Kai Allard-Liao, "the Cylons could probably cut that time in half. I think they just want to take it easy on us though, get us used to the idea of more than one hyper jump a day every day."

"You're not helping, Kai," Victor said.

"What's the problem, Victor?" he asked, concerned.

"It's just that I've always thought of the Inner Sphere as the center of the Universe," Victor replied. "We were the center of culture. We had the best technology. Oh sure, the Clans have slightly better technology than us in some areas, but they're the descendants of the Star League army and they were bent on conquering the Inner Sphere.

"Now these Cylons show up and their space travel technology is far more advanced than anything we've ever developed," Victor continued. "And now they're involved in a war that spans a quarter of the galaxy. Suddenly, everything we've ever done, the Succession Wars, the Clan War, the Trial of Refusal doesn't look as important as it did before."

"I think they were important," Kai replied. "Sure, the universe is a little smaller now, and these new technologies are going to be monumental headaches to deal with, but we Spheroids still have one thing going for us."

"What's that?"

"We still have two thousand plus populated worlds, Victor," Kai mused aloud. "The Cylons – both Empire and Protectorate – have between them only twenty seven. With the new gravity and FTL drives, starships are going to become easy to build. The Inner Sphere is going to have a new age of explosive colonization that we haven't seen since the start of the Age of War. The combined Inner Sphere could assemble a military machine that would dwarf anything the Empire and Protectorate could ever make."

"Yeah," Victor groaned as he recalled the Hybrid's words to him. "And then we'll turn that vast military machine of yours on each other like we've always done."

* * *

The Hybrid had lied to Archon-Prince Victor. Well, she hadn't out right lied. She had just neglected to mention a few details.

What she had said about the fall of the second Star League was true only if the Cylons, the Colonials, and their technology weren't factored in. What was true was that the Star League dream had been a cancer eating away at the children of Terra for centuries.

Still, the Hybrid fully expected Victor to declare war on his sister Katherine sooner or later. She even expected him to emerge victorious after a long bloody conflict that would devastate half the Inner Sphere.

And afterwards? The House Lords may still decide to dissolve the Star League. Or they may use the Cylon Empire as another common threat to stay united. It didn't matter either way. The Word of Blake would begin their jihad with or without the Star League banner and in the end they would fail and be exterminated. Beyond that was a chaos even the Hybrids couldn't penetrate. Too many factors were still in flux.

And how the new technologies would ultimately impact them still remained to be seen.

* * *

"THAT is a KF drive?" Star Captain Reginald Shu asked skeptically as he looked at the device that had been extracted from the remains of Cylon Heavy Raider that had manage to get inside the Snow Raven. It looked remarkably like a fusion reactor.

"Neg, my Star Captain!" bondsmen Nine shouted. Reginald idly wondered if she deliberately exaggerated Clan etiquette in the hopes of provoking someone. "That is a standard Colonial/Cylon FTL drive, my Star Captain!"

"How does it work?" Scientist Franklin asked.

"The drive implodes tylium into micro black holes while spinning them at near light speed, Scientist Franklin!" Nine replied instantly. "But I do not know the actual math, Scientist Franklin!"

"Freebirth!" Franklin cursed under his breath.

"Is there a problem?" Reginald asked.

"Star Captain, what your bondsman just described was one of the alternate methods for faster than light travel that was being developed in the late twenty first century," Franklin replied. "But the KF drive was perfected first. When that happened, research into all other methods of FTL travel just stopped. This," Franklin pointed at the Cylon drive, "uses the same principles as the KF drive, but does so with a drastically different method. I wonder what else we missed."

"Well, there is one thing," Reginald said thoughtfully.

"What is that, Star Captain?" Franklin asked.

"What is Tylium?"

* * *

Time is a wheel. All this has happened before and all this will happen again. The players change, but the acts remain the same.

The story of the Colonials refugees was done now. Their dying leader had led them to the Promised Land and died in sight of it before she could set foot there. Their story was done and what happened to them afterwards would be forgotten. Perhaps some faction of the Inner Sphere would come along and destroy them. Perhaps they would even prosper. In either case, their time in the lime light was at an end.

But their story, their epic journey across the galactic wilderness would live on long after they are dust and gone. New generations will draw strength from their story and some day, somewhere, a world being colonized would be named Kobol in their honor and their wheel would begin again.

Lee Adama sat in the copilot's chair of Athena's Raptor. He was here as a civilian passenger to observe today's demonstration. Sure, he could have stayed aboard the Galactica and watched on video monitors, but he had been a pilot once. He needed to see what was about to happen with his own eyes.

Out front, Lee could see the Galactica, shimmering under the sun with its new Ferro-Carbide plating. The plating had replaced the armor belt that had been stripped off long before the Colonial Holocaust. The old bucket stood in eternal vigilance over their new planet, its sheer presence enough to scare off any pirates, even the ones that had managed to acquire Colonial style FTL drives.

It never ceased to amaze Lee at how much Laura Roslin had managed to accomplish before cancer had claimed her. They had a new world to call home, one that they wholly owned. Their remote location in the Periphery guaranteed that few of the Inner Sphere powers would take a malicious interest in them. She had also negotiated a royalty to be paid to the Colonials from anyone and everyone who was making artificial gravity generators and Colonial style FTL drives. It looked like a pittance, but the sheer volume of demand provided all the money the Colonials needed to start up their new colony with a substantial amount of industry and upgrade their weapons and even import specialists and workers for all the jobs that needed doing.

And the investment in industry and workers looked like it was going to pay off too, Lee thought darkly. The Inner Sphere was going into a meltdown and war was breaking out everywhere as the two Scions of Steiner-Davion went at each other. For the Colonials, that meant their royalties were drying up, but Lee thought they would be self sufficient when the royalties stopped entirely.

In the meantime, it looked like Roslin had selected a better planet than she knew. Its location beyond the boundaries of the Inner Sphere meant that they could avoid the wars there. The improved FTL drives being distributed there also meant that refugees were flooding into the Periphery to escape the carnage. Now it was the Colonials who were taking in refugees instead of being them. Some people objected to the incoming tide, but Lee wasn't one of them. Already, he could see the kernel of a new nation being formed here.

"Sir, it's starting," his pilot, Racetrack said.

Lee could see that. The new Viper Mark VIII coasted into view, going through maneuvers to demonstrate just what it could do. The Mark VIII really a Mark VII frame with Mark II parts welded on at the nose and back to increase its volume without significantly changing its front/rear silhouette. That meant it could still use the Galactica's launch tubes all the while being twice as long as its predecessors and four times as heavy. Inside, the Mark VIII was loaded with the best fusion of both Colonial and Inner Sphere technology. They had experimented with different weapon mixes before finally settling on a mix of firepower that was sufficiently powerful without cooking the pilot with waste heat.

One by one, empty crates serving as practice targets were vaporized as the Mark VIII strafed them with paired large pulse lasers.

"Impressive," Tom Zarek said from behind Lee's seat as they watched lines of red pulses blow away innocent crates. "You know, I'm having the weirdest feeling of déjà vu."

Lee rolled his eyes but said nothing. He still didn't like the man, but he was stuck with him.

"Okay, Racetrack, I guess we're done," Lee said as the last crate died. He gestured at the planet they had named Roslin. "Take us home."

"Whatever you say, Mister President."

* * *

Time was a wheel and there were wheels within wheels. The Colonial wheel had ended. The wheel of Diaspora was in its infancy. The wheel of Empire had barely begun. There were many wheels.

There were many wheels. Each wheel was whole, an ongoing act in the play of the universe. The secret to truly controlling one's fate was not the control of how any one wheel spun or to control the actors in each act of the cosmic play. No, true freedom came when one could rearrange the order in which the wheels spun so that someday far distant, an opening could be created to escape.

* * *

Boomer flew.

The new fighter that she was flying was amazing. Sure, it wouldn't win any sprinting matches, but it had unprecedented maneuverability and with the "wing" turrets, it could fire in virtually any direction. It also used the Final Five's direct interface method of piloting. Once interfaced, Boomer's mind had expanded to fill the computers. Its sensors were her own. She knew exactly where she was heading and where everything around her was. The experience Boomer knew was but a shadow to what a Hybrid experienced.

As Boomer circled around the Cylon Hub – privately, she called the thing a "Yardstar" - she was trailed in formation by four former Raider personalities like faithful dogs. Their bodies were smaller, lighter versions of Boomer's fighter. There had less than half of Boomer's fire power, but they could be built in numbers.

The new fighters couldn't even properly be called Raiders. They were just too different. The term Harpy was making rounds and it looked like that was going to be the new designation.

But the most important change was that they were following her. Around her, Boomer could see other similar squadrons. Each Harpy Major piloted by a humanoid Cylon – usually an Eight – led their own squadron of Harpy Minors piloted by former Raider souls. Boomer watched with approval as they practiced their maneuvers. Gone were the days of mindlessly swarming forward. Now, actual tactics and mutual support were the order of the day.

Boomer swung her Harpy Major close to one of the Yardstar's exposed support members. As she approached, two of the Harpy's four engines swung down and around on jointed limbs. Grasping claws unfolded and grabbed the support member and joints flexed to bring Boomer to a comfortable perch. Around her, the Harpy Minors copied the maneuver with less awkwardness. Of course they did, Boomer told herself. They didn't have the life experience telling them that knees shouldn't bend that way.

"Boomer!" a Harpy Major pilot called as she landed next to Boomer.

"Hi, Nine, how do you like your new Harpy?" Boomer asked.

"They're fantastic," Nine said enthusiastically as she flexed the Harpy's knees and rotated the wings through a full three sixty rotation. "Those Protectorate Nines would be soooo jealous if they could see me now. None of them ever got to fly a land-air mech."

"Don't let Simon hear you call a Harpy that," Boomer told her with a smile. As good a pilot as Nine was, there was no way Boomer was going to let Nine anywhere near a battle with the Protectorate. She knew too much. Thankfully, the design compromises to make the Harpy combat effective had removed any hope of installing an FTL drive so there was little danger of Nine running off on an impulse to do battle. "He'll just tell you…"

"…that the Harpy doesn't have conversion equipment and is permanently stuck in air-mech mode, blah blah blah," Nine recited with exasperation. "Hey, you wanna race?"

Nine sent Boomer a mental pointer. There in the distance was the new Warstar. It had started life as a Type III Basestar, but was now being refitted as a pure fighting machine. Its skeletal frame was only half covered so far with the new armor. The tips of the pylons had been sawed off and the three of the new ball turrets were already installed; with the turrets, there was no direction from which an attacker could attack without coming under fire from at least five-sixths of the Warstar's total Naval Particle Projection Cannons, and the Warstar only had to tilt or turn slightly to clear the remaining turret. Adding to that firepower, the central vault had been filled by with Naval Autocannon and ammunition magazines for that could put out a devastating close in broadside for any ship foolish enough to get that close. And there was still plenty of room left for three hundred Harpies and a substantial complement of point defense and anti-fighter weaponry.

"If anyone asks, just say the Imperious Leader is pulling a surprise inspection," Nine suggested when Boomer didn't add right away.

"Okay, let's race!" Boomer laughed as she launched herself toward the incomplete Warstar. Behind her, Nine squawked outrage and launched herself after Boomer. The Harpy Minors also took off and followed faithfully behind.


End file.
